ovels  of 


Richard  Pryce 


t  Jezebel 

The  Burden  of  a  Woman 
Elementary  Jane 
Time  and  theWoman 


<«O   \ 

-\ 


38?  Eic&artt 


CHRISTOPHER. 

JEZEBEL. 

ELEMENTARY  JANE. 

THE   BURDEN   OF  A  WOMAN. 

TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

A  Story  of  the  Early  Nineties 


BY 


RICHARD   PRYCE 


BOSTON    AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY 
ttitotfibe  press  Cambridge 


Published  May  IQI$ 


The  Jesuit  said,  "Time  and  I  against  any  two." 

THOMAS  HARDY,  A  Laodicean. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

CHAPTER  I 

MRS.  SANDON,  in  an  indolent  and  unaggressive 
sort  of  way,  disapproved  of  her  Indian  cousin.  But 
she  was  fond  of  her  at  the  same  time.  Moreover, 
she  was  a  mischievous  old  woman,  who  liked 
amusement  herself,  and  as  the  Ruthvens  were  stay- 
ing with  her  in  Earl  Street,  she  gave  a  series  of 
small  dinner-parties,  at  one  of  which  she  gave  Mrs. 
Ruthven  her  best  young  man. 

Very  possibly  it  is  unfortunate  for  a  girl  to  have 
a  mother  who  scarcely  looks  any  older  than  herself. 
Mrs.  Sandon,  sitting  in  the  stalls  at  the  Panton, 
whither  the  party  had  adjourned  because  the  play 
had  the  grace  to  begin  at  nine  instead  of  eight,  and 
the  hostess  had  too  much  respect  for  her  cook  to 
hurry  the  courses,  said  something  of  the  sort  to  her 
neighbor  Lady  Murgatroyd. 

The  curtain  had  risen,  and  a  rude  person  in  the 
pit  —  the  row  in  which  the  old  lady  was  sitting  was 
somewhat  far  back  —  growled,  and  said,  "  Ssh ! 


2  TIME  AttD  THE  WOMAN 

Ssh ! "  very  audibly.  One  or  two  other  people 
turned  their  heads  ;  Mrs.  Sandon  felt  that  she  ought 
not  to  have  been  talking,  that  the  rebuke  was  de- 
served, and  she  lapsed  into  silence  ;  and  wondered 
whether  at  her  age  a  risky,  frisky  farce  really 
amused  her.  Some  one,  a  frolicsome  wife,  was  hid- 
ing under  a  table ;  an  equally  frolicsome  husband 
had  drenched  a  waiter  with  a  garden  hose.  The 
house  shook  with  merriment.  Mrs.  Ruthven  laughed 
with  the  rest  and  displayed  very  pretty  teeth. 
Gerald  Ventnor  noted  their  whiteness  and  their 
evenness,  as  she  leant  across  him  to  speak  to  her 
daughter,  who  sat  with  a  grave  face. 

"  Are  n't  you  amused  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  round.  Mrs.  Ruthven  repeated 
her  question. 

"Yes,  at  least  I  think  so.  Perhaps  not  very 
much ;  I  don't  know.  If  one  thinks  of  it,  it  is  dread- 
ful. It  ought  to  be  rather  serious,  and  one  is  sup- 
posed to  laugh.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  serious  I "  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

Mrs.  Sandon  touched  Lady  Murgatroyd's  arm 
gently  with  her  fan. 

"  Look  at  that,"  she  said. 

"And  then  I  don't  think  I  understand  it  all," 
added  Miss  Ruthven. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  3 

"  What  a  loss  it  is  to  have  so  little  imagination," 
said  her  mother. 

"  But  this  sort  of  thing  requires  a  certain  slang 
education,"  said  Gerald,  lightly. 

"  Coupled  with  having  what  you  call  well-dined," 
put  in  another  of  Mrs.  Sandon's  party. 

"You  speak  as  a  man,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven, 
smiling. 

"And  I  have  what  you  call  well-dined,"  said 
Miss  Ruthven. 

At  this  the  others  laughed,  and  she  wondered 
why  as  she  hastened  to  add  :  — 

"  So  it  must  be  as  mother  says,  that  I  have  no 
imagination." 

"  Araby  is  rather  impossible,"  Mrs.  Ruthven  said 
to  Ventnor,  as  one  who  sums  up  a  matter  and  dis- 
misses it. 

Miss  Ruthven's  name  for  family  reasons  was 
Arabella.  It  was  to  her  mother  that  she  owed  its 
conversion  to  the  softer-sounding  Araby. 

When  the  curtain  fell  Mrs.  Sandon  resumed :  — 

"  This  won't  get  better.  I  am  sorry  for  that  girl, 
and  I  wonder  myself  how  it  will  all  end.  Johnnie — 
ridiculous  not  to  say  vulgar  name  for  a  married 
woman,  it  sounds  to  me  almost  improper — Johnnie, 
I  say,  has  had  a  high  old  time  —  isn't  that  what 


4  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

they  call  it?  —  in  India.  Has  kippled  at  Simla  to 
her  heart's  content,  and  at  all  those  other  dreadfully 
attractive  places,  about  the  goings-on  at  which  we 
all  know  so  much  now.  Well,  she  means  to  have 
as  good  a  time  as  she  can  still.  As  it  is,  since  she 
has  been  with  me  half  a  dozen  of  her  young  men 
have  already  been  to  look  her  up.  Yes,  is  n't  she 
pretty  ?  Of  course  I  have  known  her  all  her  life, 
and  I  declare  she  scarcely  looks  a  day  older  than 
when  she  married  Corbet.  That  must  be  nineteen 
years  ago,  and  Johnnie  Ruthven  is,  I  suppose,  in 
her  thirty-eighth  year." 

Lady  Murgatroyd  said  that  did  not  seem  possi- 
ble. She  launched  into  a  disquisition  as  to  what 
makes  or  does  not  make  a  woman  age.  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven, she  thought,  could  not  have  had  many  dis- 
appointments. 

"Well,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Sandon,  "I  don't  know 
that  she  has.  She  takes  things  very  quietly,  and 
I  don't  think  she  worries  herself  over  trifles." 

Mrs.  Sandon  looked  at  the  lines  on  Lady  Mur- 
gatroyd's  face  as  she  spoke,  and  did  not  say,  though 
she  thought  it,  that  one  or  two  of  these  might  have 
been  spared  her  friend  if  she  had  gone  upon  a  like 
principle. 

There  was  a  pause,  which  was  filled  by  the  hum 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  5 

of  talk  in  the  theatre.  Lady  Murgatroyd  contem- 
plated Miss  Ruthven  closely. 

"  She  is  nearly  as  beautiful  as  her  mother,"  she 
said,  presently. 

Mrs.  Sandon  looked  from  one  to  the  other. 

Joan  Ruthven,  or  Johnnie,  as  she  was  known  to 
her  intimate  friends  and  Mrs.  Sandon' s  more  or  less 
pretended  disapproval,  was  in  truth  wonderfully 
well-preserved.  Indeed,  so  young  did  she  appear, 
that  to  the  casual  observer  her  looks  did  not  sug- 
gest that  they  owed  anything  to  preservation  at 
all.  She  had  a  slim  tall  figure,  supple  as  a  girl's, 
with  the  lithe  straightness  of  the  good  horse- 
woman. Her  face  had  the  most  frank  and  open 
expression.  It  was  innocent  as  a  child's,  and 
there  was  much  that  was  childish  in  the  beauti- 
ful mouth ;  but  Mrs.  Sandon,  speaking  of  her 
eyes,  said  that  you  could  see  them  across  the 
street. 

Araby  resembled  her  mother  only  in  outline. 
She  too  was  tall  and  straight,  but  her  slightness 
was  more  pronounced  and  her  colouring  was  alto- 
gether different.  While  Mrs.  Ruthven  had  brown 
hair,  and  eyes  of  the  darkest  blue,  Araby  was  un- 
usually fair.  Her  hair  was  of  a  shade  of  red  which 
Mrs.  Ruthven  chose  not  to  admire.  It  was  soft, 


6  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

and  dry,  and  feathery,  and  it  blazed  with  golden 
lights.  She  reminded  you  at  times  of  a  Romney, 
at  times  of  a  Greuze.  She  had,  it  is  true,  the  same 
childish  mouth  as  her  mother,  but  here  all  likeness 
ceased.  Her  nose  called  for  no  comment,  good  or 
bad,  and  her  eyes,  up  to  the  time  of  which  I  write, 
she  had  only  used  to  see  with.  Even  thus  it  is  prob- 
able that  many  things  escaped  her  which  to  others 
were  sufficiently  obvious.  She  had  a  rose-leaf  com- 
plexion of  which  she  took  no  special  care,  and  a 
colour  that  was  ready  in  response  to  excitement, 
pleasure,  interest,  and  the  like.  Her  beauty  was 
more  prospective  than  actual. 

Seated  between  the  girl  and  the  mother,  Gerald 
Ventnor  found  himself  as  a  matter  of  course  talk- 
ing to  the  mother.  Miss  Ruthven's  unobtrusive- 
ness  was  somehow  such  as  to  cause  her  to  be 
dismissed  by  a  certain  type  of  man  as  ingenue. 
When  occasionally  Gerald  looked  at  her  it  was  to 
wonder  whether  she  knew  her  own  beauty.  He  did 
not  think  that  she  did,  and  he  thought  once  that 
it  might  be  amusing  to  tell  her.  Unconsciously  he 
thought  of  her  as  a  little  girl  to  whom  it  was  good- 
natured  to  address  an  occasional  remark,  but  who 
would  not  of  course  expect  it.  This,  though  he 
did  not  know  it,  was  somehow  contrived  by  Mrs. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  7 

Ruthven.  She  had  a  way  of  influencing  people 
without  their  knowledge. 

"  Now  look  at  that,"  began  Mrs.  Sandon  pres- 
ently, but  the  rude  and  socialistic  person  in  the 
pit  said  "Ssh"  again,  and  she,  turning  round  in- 
dignantly this  time,  waited  nevertheless  as  before 
till  the  end  of  the  act. 

The  house  was  full ;  not  a  gap  was  to  be  seen  in 
the  rows  of  stalls.  The  theatre  had  the  brilliant  and 
prosperous  appearance  that  argues  that  the  seats 
have  been  paid  for,  and  that  "  paper  "  is  unknown. 
The  red  silk  handkerchief  of  distant  Bayswater 
and  the  plush  cloaks  of  the  suburbs  were  absent. 
Smart,  well-dined  London  was  in  evidence. 

"What  I  wanted  to  say,"  said  Mrs.  Sandon, 
when  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  second  act,  "what 
I  wanted  to  say  was,  just  note  how  Mrs.  Ruthven 
takes  possession  of  a  man.  Gerald  Ventnor  has 
spoken  about  six  words  to  Araby  since  the  begin- 
ning of  the  evening.  By  the  bye,  how  furious  his 
mother  will  be  if  she  takes  him  up  —  Mrs.  Ruthven 
I  mean."  Mrs.  Sandon  chuckled  at  the  mere  thought. 
Lady  Ventnor' s  alarms  on  Gerald's  account  were  a 
source  of  constant  amusement  to  her. 

"And  the  husband?  "  asked  Lady  Murgatroyd. 

"Whose?  Oh,  Mrs.  Ruthven's  husband?" 


8  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Lady  Murgatroyd  nodded. 

"  Well,  that 's  what  I  don't  understand  —  what 
I  suppose  no  one  ever  will  understand,"  said  Mrs. 
Sandon.  "He  doesn't  interfere ;  he  lets  her  do  ex- 
actly as  she  likes.  No,  we  shall  never  get  at  the 
bottom  of  that  story !  Corbet  Ruthven  was  madly 
in  love  with  her  when  he  married.  My  dear  Lady 
Murgatroyd,  you  never  saw  a  man  more  restlessly 
miserable  after  he  met  her  at  a  Woolwich  ball,  nor 
more  wildly  elated  when,  after  playing  him  like  a 
fish,  she  accepted  him.  He  was  n't  so  well  off  then, 
you  know,  as  he  is  now.  His  uncle  was  alive  in 
those  days.  He  made  a  confidante  of  me — Corbet 
and  I  were  always  good  friends.  I  have  seen  him 
walk  up  and  down  my  drawing-room  in  Earl  Street, 
till  I  thought  he  would  wear  holes  in  the  carpet. 
He  talked  to  me  of  her  for  hours.  Well,  they  were 
married,  and  he  wrote  me  rapturous  letters  about 
his  happiness.  That  lasted  for  about  a  year ;  then 
he  began  to  say  less  about  her ;  then  she  dropped 
out  of  his  letters;  then  he  stopped  writing  al- 
together, and  I  heard  from  every  one  that  Corbet 
Ruthven  was  dropping  his  friends.  His  uncle  died 
and  left  him  the  tea  business,  and  Corbet  left  the 
service,  which  I  always  thought  a  pity.  I  found 
him  greatly  changed  when  I  saw  him  last ;  that 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  9 

was  about  six  years  ago.  He  came  home  for  a 
couple  of  months  to  see  Araby,  who  was  living 
with  two  Miss  Woottons,  aunts  of  his.  He  seemed 
to  be  absolutely  indifferent  to  all  that  Johnnie  did. 
They  didn't  quarrel,  you  must  understand,  —  she 
is  a  great  deal  too  clever  for  that,  —  he  just  went 
his  way  and  let  her  go  hers." 

"  Did  she  come  home  with  him  ?  " 

"  No,  she  was  amusing  herself  in  the  hills  with 
her  pet  young  men.  He  laughed  about  it,  and 
called  them  Johnnie's  Johnnies.  Poor  Corbet!" 

"Why  did  she  marry  him?" 

"He  was  a  good  match  for  her.  The  Linton 
girls  had  n't  a  penny  of  their  own  ;  their  faces  were 
their  fortunes.  Rose,  the  other  one,  married  well 
too,  but  she  died.  Corbet  had  a  little  money,  and 
the  prospects  which  were  afterwards  realized ;  so 
Joan,  after  keeping  him  dangling  on  for  two  or 
three  months,  married  him.  Whether  she  ever 
really  cared  for  him  or  not  I  cannot  say.  I  dare 
say  the  attention  she  got  turned  her  head  a  little. 
One  thing,  by  the  way,  which  Corbet  said  to  me, 
struck  me  as  significant.  He  was  regretting  the 
separation  from  Araby,  and  there  were  reasons 
why  he  could  not  leave  the  tea  business.  I  said 
that  in  time  Araby  would  be  able  to  go  out  to  him, 


io  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

and  he  said  never.  Araby  should  not  set  her  foot 
in  India  with  his  consent.  I  inferred  not  a  little 
from  this." 

There  was  a  pause.  Mrs.  Sandon  smiled  to  her- 
self. 

"  You  must  understand  me,"  she  said  then.  "  I 
am  really  very  fond  of  Johnnie,  with  all  her  faults ; 
I  always  was,  and  she  has  been  uniformly  delight- 
ful to  me.  I  love  her  pretty  face.  Just  watch  her 
mouth  as  she  speaks.  Have  you  ever  seen  anything 
more  beguiling?  Do  you  wonder  that  men  fall  in 
love  with  her  ?  I  have  only  to  look  at  her  to  forgive 
her  everything." 

Lady  Murgatroyd,  who  was  always  thinking  of 
her  own  plain  face,  —  and  she  had  perhaps  an 
exaggerated  idea  of  its  plainness,  —  sighed. 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Sandon. 

"Nothing,"  said  Lady  Murgatroyd,  "nothing. 
Look,  I  think  Mr.  Ventnor  wants  to  catch  your 
eye." 

Gerald  was  leaning  over  the  back  of  his  stall. 

"  I  want  you  all  to  come  back  to  supper  with  me 
at  the  club.  Mrs.  Ruthven  is  good  enough  to  say 
that  she  will  come  if  you  will,  so  you  must  not 
refuse  me,  Mrs.  Sandon." 

"My  dear  Gerald,  I  couldn't  think  of  it.    I 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  n 

should  be  dead  to-morrow.  It  is  very  nice  of  you 
all  the  same.  But  my  not  going  need  not  prevent 
any  one  else.  Lady  Murgatroyd,  you  will  go?" 

Lady  Murgatroyd  shook  her  head.  She  was  a 
little  bit  tired,  she  said.  It  was  most  good  of  Mr. 
Ventnor,  but  Lady  Murgatroyd  thought  she  would 
rather  go  home  from  the  theatre. 

"  I  will  drop  you  in  Earl  Street  then,"  said  Mrs. 
Sandon,  "  and  Mrs.  Ruthven  must  chaperon  the 
girls.  Johnnie,  I  give  Miss  Norfolk  into  your  care. 
Is  Mr.  Hartford  going  with  you  ?  Yes  ?  And  Mr. 
Vine  and  Mr.  Le  Marchant  ?  " 

The  two  men  she  named  last  regretted  that  they 
were  going  on  to  a  ball. 

Ventnor  went  out  to  telegraph  his  orders  to  his 
club,  and  Mrs.  Sandon  said  to  her  neighbour :  — 

"I  quite  wish  I  was  going  with  them,  but  it 
would  n't  have  been  fair  to  spoil  their  fun,  would 
it?" 

Lady  Murgatroyd  smiled.  She  had  an  unhappy 
knack  of  imagining  slights  that  were  not  intended. 
She  was  morbidly  sensitive,  and  time  had  no  power 
to  blunt  the  quality. 

When  the  play  came  to  an  end  Mrs.  Ruthven, 
fastening  her  cloak,  a  wonderful  thing  of  silk  and 
feathers,  leant  over  towards  Mrs.  Sandon. 


12  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  You  will  take  Araby  home,"  she  said,  in  her 
sweet  voice. 

"But  surely  Araby  is  going  with  you,"  Mrs. 
Sandon  said,  raising  her  eyebrows  and  speaking 
in  a  tone  of  mild  expostulation. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  shook  her  head. 

"I  am  quite  ready  to  go  home,"  said  Araby, 
good-temperedly. 

"The  best  girl  in  the  world,"  whispered  Mrs. 
Sandon  to  Lady  Murgatroyd,  "  but  I  should  rather 
like  to  shake  Johnnie." 

It  was  not  till  the  Earl  Street  party  had  driven 
off  that  Gerald  saw  what  had  happened.  It  chanced 
that  it  was  Hartford,  and  not  he,  who  put  them 
into  their  carriage. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said  more  than  once  in  the 
hansom;  "I  hope  Miss  Ruthven  knew  she  was 
asked.  I  thought  it  was  quite  understood  that  you 
were  all  coming." 

"  We  should  have  made  an  odd  number,"  said 
Mrs.  Ruthven. 

"  I  am  sorry,  though,"  said  Ventnor. 


CHAPTER  II 

MRS.  RUTH  YEN  and  Ventnor  had  barely  alighted 
when  they  were  joined  by  Miss  Norfolk  and  Hart- 
ford, whose  hansom  had  been  following  closely  in 
the  track  of  their  own.  Gerald  led  the  way  to  the 
room,  where  a  table  awaited  the  arrival  of  his 
supper-party. 

Several  others  were  occupied,  and  the  candles 
with  their  red  shades  dotted  the  room  like  flowers 
with  hearts  of  flame. 

Ventnor  exchanged  nods  with  a  man  or  two  of 
his  acquaintance.  People  looked  up,  and  glancing 
casually  first  at  the  group  focussed  their  gaze  by 
degrees  on  Mrs.  Ruthven.  Supper  passed  merrily 
enough.  Some  one  said  something  about  a  sur- 
vival of  the  fittest.  Gerald  made  an  admirable  host. 
Mrs.  Ruthven  talked  lightly  and  laughed  often. 
She  had  an  attractive  laugh  that  made  you  wish 
to  laugh  too.  Gerald  sought  a  word  to  express  her, 
and  found  it  he  thought  in  provocante. 
i-  Miss  Norfolk,  an  old  friend  of  Gerald's,  was  of 
the  type  of  girl  that  Mrs.  Ruthven  approved.  She 
may  be  here  described  briefly  as  the  child  of  her 


14  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

decade.  She  was  very  much  on  the  spot,  and  she 
thoroughly  understood  that  she  was  to  talk  to 
Hartford.  She  was  nothing  loath. 

"  A  girl  to  make  one's  useful  friend,"  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven  said  to  herself ;  "  I  will  see  something  of  her 
later  on." 

Afterwards  she  found  an  opportunity  of  admir- 
ing Miss  Norfolk's  dress.  Mrs.  Ruthven  was  always 
as  ready  to  annex  a  girl  as  to  annex  a  man,  though 
for  different  reasons. 

Ventnor,  whose  regrets  as  to  the  absence  of  Miss 
Ruthven  were  half  sincere  and  half  conventional, 
had  long  since  allowed  them  to  sink  to  rest  in  the 
charm  of  the  society  of  her  mother.  He  congratu- 
lated himself  upon  the  happy  thought  of  supper  in 
the  ladies'  room  at  his  club.  Mrs.  Ruthven  had 
accepted  with  an  absence  of  demur  that  was  flat- 
tering. 

It  was  easy  to  like  Gerald  Ventnor,  and  he  was  a 
man  of  many  friends.  Nature  had  dealt  with  him 
generously.  He  was  not  perhaps  remarkable  for 
any  very  special  attributes,  and  his  type  is  one  com- 
mon enough  amongst  the  class  to  which  he  be- 
longed. Eton  and  Oxford  had  produced  him,  or  at 
least  had  aided  in  his  development,  and  a  sound 
constitution  and  a  more  or  less  healthy  mode  of 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  15 

life  had  contributed  to  make  him  what  he  was.  His 
features  were  sufficiently  good.  His  skin  was  clear 
and  ruddy.  His  blue  eyes  looked  straight  at  you, 
and  had  a  certain  baffling  serenity.  Something 
of  the  same  nature  was  again  suggested  by  his 
mouth.  Miss  Norfolk,  who  knew  him  well,  said  of 
him  that  you  were  never  sure  what  he  might  or 
might  not  be  thinking  of  you. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  at  this  moment  was  feeling  the 
perverse  attraction  of  his  placidity.  She  was  accus- 
tomed to  admiration  and  took  it  as  her  due.  It  was 
of  course  tiresome  upon  occasion,  and  she  could 
have  cited  half  a  dozen  instances  of  the  truth  of 
this  amongst  those  of  the  young  men  whom  from 
time  to  time  she  had  annexed.  There  was  Robin 
Wakefield,  whom  she  had  undertaken  to  cure  of 
his  attachment  to  a  girl  at  home  who  had  jilted 
him.  He  transferred  his  affection  to  her  with  alarm- 
ing rapidity,  and  bored  her  beyond  measure.  There 
was  Atty  Carnac  of  the th  Lancers,  who  threat- 
ened to  shoot  himself,  and  ended  by  marrying  the 
ugliest  woman  in  Calcutta.  There  was  young  Kyn- 
aston,  known  in  his  regiment  as  Kitty,  whose  de- 
votion took  the  form  of  a  melancholy  that  began 
by  being  amusing,  and  became  in  time  a  weariness 
of  the  flesh.  And  there  were  several  others.  But 


16  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Mrs.  Ruthven  was  wishing  that  Gerald  would  ap- 
pear a  little  less  calm. 

"  I  'm  wondering/'  she  said,  suddenly  and  irrele- 
vantly to  anything  that  had  been  said  before,  "  I'm 
wondering  whether  any  one  really  knows  you,  Mr. 
Ventnor." 

Gerald  smiled  inscrutably,  and  said  quietly  that 
perhaps  there  was  nothing  to  know. 

On  his  part,  in  his  somewhat  indolent  way, 
Ventnor  thought  that  Mrs.  Ruthven  was  a  very 
charming  woman,  and  pretty  enough  to  turn  strong 
heads  ;  but  he  did  not  wear  his  heart  upon  his 
sleeve.  Moreover,  there  is  a  point  at  which  interest 
passes  the  border-line  of  pleasant  sensation,  and 
further  than  this  he  had  no  intention,  just  then  at 
any  rate,  of  allowing  his  feelings  to  go. 

This  he  decided  quietly,  to  the  accompaniment 
of  the  dishes  he  hoped  were  well  chosen,  a  cham- 
pagne which  was  very  well  chosen  indeed,  and  the 
sound  of  Mrs.  Ruthven's  voice.  Her  voice  pleased 
his  ear. 

In  the  light  of  the  candles  a  diamond  necklace 
which  she  wore  sparkled  upon  a  very  white 
neck.  Miss  Norfolk,  as  one  of  a  large  family,  was 
thinking  that  it  was  easy  for  Mrs.  Ruthven  to 
look  well.  She  admitted,  however,  frankly,  that 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  17 

fine  feathers  were  not  by  any  means  necessary 
to  make  Mrs.  Ruthven  a  fine  bird.  She  knew, 
moreover,  upon  which  side  of  her  bread  butter 
was  to  be  expected,  and  she  also  was  thinking 
that  her  new  acquaintance  might  prove  a  useful 
friend. 

Miss  Norfolk,  you  see,  was  eminently  a  girl  of 
London,  and  she  had  no  illusions.  The  gifts  of  to- 
day were  always  acceptable  to  her,  and  she  was 
prepared  for  more  to-morrow.  She  was  a  good 
girl  enough  in  the  widest  sense  of  the  term.  She 
was  not  malicious.  She  was  full  of  generous  im- 
pulses, and  if  she  valued  people  in  proportion  to 
the  use  which  they  might  be  to  her,  she  was  not 
alone  in  so  doing. 

Gerald,  who  knew  her  well  enough  to  say  pretty 
much  what  he  liked,  had  said  to  her  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  evening,  — 

"You  see  Hartford?" 

"Which  do  you  call  Hartford?"  was  Miss  Nor- 
f oik's  question. 

"That  smart-looking  little  chap  talking  to  Le 
Marchant.  He  has  three  or  four  thousand  a  year 
—  not  so  bad,  you  know,  in  hard  times.  He  is  a 
friend  of  mine.  Talk  to  him." 

"Impertinent!"  said  Miss  Norfolk  at  the  time, 


18  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

smiling.  But  she  made  a  mental  note  of  the  infor- 
mation. 

Her  thoughts  ran  somewhat  in  this  wise:  — 

"  Mr.  Hartford  is  not  a  bad  little  man.  I  wish  he 
were  a  little  bit  more  like  —  like  Mr.  Ventnor,  for 
example.  How  unhappy  Mr.  Ventnor  might  make 
a  woman  who  was  foolish  enough  to  fall  in  love 
with  him.  I  think  Mrs.  Ruthven  is  prettier  than 
any  one  I  ever  saw.  I  think  I  shall  like  her.  I 
know  this  sort  of  woman.  She  will  give  small  din- 
ner-parties, and  she  will  be  glad  of  unencumbered 
girls.  Thank  goodness,  mamma  doesn't  send  us 
out  in  pairs.  Mrs.  Ruthven  might  be  of  the  great- 
est use  to  me  !  Her  daughter  is  ten  times  as  good- 
looking  as  I  am,  but  I  don't  fancy,  somehow,  that 
she  would  interfere  much  with  any  one." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  was  talking  of  her  plans,  and 
Miss  Norfolk  ceased  speculating  in  order  to  listen. 
She  accomplished  the  double  feat  of  hearing  all 
that  the  others  were  saying,  and  keeping  up  a  con- 
versation at  the  same  time  with  Hartford. 

"  I  am  looking  for  a  small  furnished  house,  you 
know,  or  a  flat,  or  something.  Mrs.  Sandon  is  very 
kindly  putting  me  up  till  I  get  what  I  want.  My 
husband's  plans  are  so  unsettled  that  for  the  pre- 
sent I  shall  have  to  make  my  own  arrangements." 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  19 

"A  small  house?"  said  Ventnor. 

"A  small  [house,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven.  "It  must 
be  small,  because,  as  there  are  only  Araby  and 
myself,  I  don't  want  the  bother  of  a  lot  of  serv- 
ants." 

Gerald  thought  he  knew  of  such  a  house,  and  so 
the  mischief,  such  as  it  was,  began.  Mrs.  Sandon 
was  unwittingly  to  blame  for  asking  Gerald  to 
dinner  on  this  particular  evening.  Gerald's  mother 
never  forgave  her,  and  said  all  sorts  of  things 
about  her,  some  of  which  were  repeated.  This  of 
course  was  later  on,  when  the  house  was  taken, 
and  the  annexation  of  Gerald  appeared  complete. 

The  immediate  result  of  the  night's  work  which 
began  in  Mrs.  Sandon's  dining-room  in  Earl  Street, 
and  was  forwarded  at  the  theatre  and  the  club,  was 
an  appointment  for  the  next  day. 

"  Let  us  say  at  Castanet's  in  Bond  Street,"  said 
Gerald.  "  My  cousin's  house  is  in  Primate  Street, 
Berkeley  Square,  and  we  can  have  tea  or  chocolate 
or  something  at  Castanet's  before  we  go  there." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  agreed. 

"  You  save  me  no  end  of  trouble,"  she  said.  "  I 
was  dreading  house-hunting." 

After  a  while  the  ladies  rose  to  go. 

"Four  o'clock  to-morrow,  then,"  said  Gerald, 


20  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

forgetting  for  the  moment  the  time  of  year  as  he 
put  them  into  a  hansom. 

"Four  o'clock,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  with  the 
smile  that  had  lingered  painfully  ere  then  in  more 
than  one  chained  memory. 

Ventnor  and  Hartford  went  back  into  the  club, 
and  made  their  way  to  the  smoking-room.  Gerald 
called  for  cigars. 

<(  What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  pretty  wo- 
man ?  "  he  said. 

Now  Mrs.  Ruthven  had  taken  small  notice  of 
Ventnor' s  friend ;  but,  curiously  enough  (or  per- 
haps, since  human  nature  is  perverse,  for  this  very 
reason),  it  was  on  him  that  she  had  made  the 
greater  impression.  While  Miss  Norfolk  had  aired 
her  advanced  ideas,  his  eyes  had  wandered  again 
and  again  to  Mrs.  Ruthven's  face.  He  went  home 
restless  and  Ventnor  complacent. 

Mrs.  Ruthven,  meanwhile,  having  left  Miss  Nor- 
folk safely  at  home  in  Sloane  Street,  drove  thence 
to  Mrs.  Sandon's. 

The  one  trick  which  her  thirty-seven  years 
played  her  was  that,  allowing  her  to  look  twenty- 
eight  till  midnight,  by  lurking  in  good-natured 
ambush,  after  a  long  evening  they  occasionally 
came  out  thence,  and  asserted  their  existence. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  21 

When  Mrs.  Ruthven  looked  into  her  glass  that 
night  before  undressing,  she  saw  [that  which 
scarcely  pleased  her.  She  had  sent  home  direc- 
tions to  her  maid  not  to  sit  up  for  her,  and  she 
was  alone.  She  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  at 
herself.  Then  she  left  her  room,  and  crossed  the 
landing  to  another  door.  She  opened  it  without 
knocking,  and  went  in. 

It  was  a  bedroom.  A  fire  was  burning  brightly 
in  the  grate,  and  the  light  of  it  flickered  on  the 
walls,  and  glittered  on  the  silver  and  glass  of  the 
equipments  of  the  dressing-table.  The  glow  of  the 
leaping  flames  lit  up  Araby's  shining  hair.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  approached  the  bed,  and  contemplated 
her  daughter  for  some  moments.  The  even  fringe 
of  the  lashes  outlined  the  curve  of  the  closed  eye- 
lids ;  a  delicate  flush  was  on  her  face ;  the  red  lips 
were  closed,  and  the  gentle  breath  was  drawn 
silently  through  the  nostrils.  A  slender  hand  lay 
on  the  coverlet,  which  rose  and  fell  with  the  even 
movement  of  the  bosom. 

Perhaps  a  passing  admiration,  or  a  sudden  in- 
stinct of  affection  came  to  Araby's  mother  as  she 
stood  there.  She  leant  over  the  sleeping  girl  as  if 
to  kiss  her,  but  at  this  moment  Araby  stirred.  A 
flame  leapt  in  the  fire.  The  bright  hair  blazed  with 


22  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

colour.  How  smooth  was  the  delicate  skin,  how 
smooth,  and  clear,  and  unworn,  and  young ! 

It  was  with  a  hand  that  expressed  impatience 
that  Mrs.  Ruthven  roused  her  daughter. 

Araby  gave  a  little  cry,  and  woke. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter?  "  she  asked  in  a  startled 
voice. 

The  firelight  was  very  bright,  and  made  her 
blink.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  with  her  knuckles  like 
a  child. 

"  What  should  be  the  matter  ?  "  said  her  mother 
shortly.  "  Sit  up,  please,  while  I  speak  to  you,  and 
listen  to  what  I  say." 

Araby  said,  "Yes,  mother,"  and  obeyed.  She 
pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  face. 

"  How  absurdly  like  your  father  you  are  some- 
times ! "  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  —  "  irritatingly  like 
him !  Your  hair  is  redder  than  his,  though,  and  I 
hate  red  hair.  Well,  don't  look  indignant." 

"  I  did  n't  look  indignant  —  "  began  Araby. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  her  mother,  "  you  did.  And 
if  you  did  n't  I  choose  to  say  you  did,  so  don't 
again.  If  you  and  I  are  to  get  on,  you  must  learn 
not  to  contradict  me." 

Araby  was  silent,  and  Mrs.  Ruthven  smiled 
quietly  to  herself. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  23 

"Now you  are  cross/'  she  said  next. 

"  Indeed  I  am  not,"  protested  Araby. 

"  I  say  you  are,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven.  ('.«  Really," 
she  added  in  parenthesis,  "  the  colour  of  your 
hair  makes  my  eyes  ache.)  Well,  I  choose  to 
say  you  are ;  it  pleases  me  to  think  you  are 
cross." 

"Very  well,  I  am  cross,"  said  Araby,  with  tears 
near  her  eyes. 

"  Now  you  are  impudent,"  said  her  mother. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 
It  was  a  curious  thing,  perhaps,  but  a  fact  never- 
theless, that  she  took  a  keen  pleasure  in  teasing 
her  daughter.  Possibly  the  girl  was  easy  to  tease. 

" I  didn't  mean  — "  Araby  began. 

But  happily  for  her  at  this  moment  a  little  trav- 
elling-clock that  stood  upon  the  mantelpiece  struck, 
and  reminded  Mrs.  Ruthven  of  the  lateness  of  the 
hour. 

"  Never  mind  what  you  meant,  dear,  or  did  not 
mean,"  she  said.  "What  I  woke  you  to  tell  you 
was,  that  I  don't  want  to  be  called  in  the  morning. 
You  must  stop  Olympe  on  her  way  to  my  door,  so 
don't  oversleep  yourself." 

"  Very  well,  mother." 

"  And  tell  them  to  send  up  my  breakfast  when  I 


24  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

ring.  Make  any  civil  apology  you  like,  and  don't 
be  clumsy  about  it.  Good-night." 

"  Good-night,  mother.'* 

Araby  was  asleep  again  in  a  few  minutes,  but 
Mrs.  Ruthven  lay  awake  for  two  hours. 


CHAPTER  III 

ARABY  woke  early,  and  was  in  time  to  catch 
Olympe. 

Olympe  was  not  exactly  a  soubrette.  There  was 
a  good  deal  of  her,  though  it  was  very  neat  and 
trim  in  its  way.  She  was  proud  of  her  waist,  which 
was  small  if  only  by  contrast  with  the  very  ample 
proportions  of  such  parts  of  her  as,  in  the  physical 
economy  of  her  figure,  were  above  and  below  it, 
and  she  had  a  trick  of  resting  her  hands  upon  her 
round  hips  in  a  way  that  showed  its  curves  freely. 
She  had  a  certain  affection  for  powder,  and  her 
complexion  did  her  credit,  since  she  made  it  for 
herself.  Olympe  in  the  morning  and  Olympe  in 
the  evening  were  two  different  people,  and  Olympe 
dressed  to  go  out  was  described  by  Mrs.  Sandon 
as  a  duchess. 

She  had  been  in  the  service  of  Mrs.  Ruthven  for 
a  year.  The  lady  who  had  taken  her  out  to  India, 
and  from  whom  the  home-returning  Mrs.  Ruthven 
engaged  her,  said,  — 

"  She  has  eyes  in  the  back  of  her  head,  and  at 
the  ends  of  her  eight  fingers  and  her  two  thumbs, 


26  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

and  she  has  ears  that  defy  walls ;  but  she  is  invalu- 
able, and  if  she  would  only  stay  with  me  I  would 
keep  her  for  ever." 

To  Araby's  recital  of  her  mother's  orders  Olympe 
said,  — 

"  All  aright.  Oh  whatta  bore !  I  arise  too  soon. 
I  get  up  at  coq  cro'.  All  in  vain.  Je  ne  ferai  pas 
monter  le  dejeuner  de  madame  avant  neuf  heures 
et  demie.  Voila  encore  une  heure.  I  might  'ave 
slept  again  'alf  an  hour.  Ah  whatta  pity !  Madame 
enjoyed  her  evening?  and  mademoiselle  aussi? 
That 's  right." 

Olympe  knew  madame  well.  Those  merry  little 
black  eyes  of  hers  were  very  shrewd.  She  left  the 
room  smiling. 

Mrs.  Sandon's  establishment  was  somewhat  lim- 
ited, and  it  chanced  that  Olympe,  who  could  turn 
her  hand  to  anything,  had  volunteered  to  assist  in 
waiting  at  dinner  on  the  preceding  evening.  She 
had  thus  seen  something  of  the  annexation  of 
Gerald. 

"  Oh,  I  know  something  — me !  I  am  not  a  mush- 
room born  to-day.  We  go  to  supper.  We  sit  up 
late.  Alors  ce  matin  we  take  a  little  rest.  We  see 
monsieur  again  to-day,  I  make  a  bet." 

Araby  herself  scarcely  looked  younger  than  her 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  27 

mother  when  Mrs.  Ruthven  came  down  a  little 
later  on. 

Mrs.  Sandon  was  of  that  attractive  type  of  host- 
ess that  leaves  her  guests  to  amuse  themselves  in- 
stead of  mapping  out  for  them  tedious  diversions. 
It  would  not,  here  be  it  said,  have  been  very  easy 
to  map  out  anything  for  Mrs.  Ruthven  against  her 
will.  She  was  an  adept,  she  said  of  herself,  at  get- 
ting out  of  things.  Mrs.  Sandon  asked  her  her 
plans. 

"  Well,  we  shan't  be  in  for  lunch,"  said  her  cousin, 
buttoning  her  gloves.  "  I  am  going  to  take  Araby 
out  to  shop,  and  she  must  chaperon  me  to  lunch 
at  the  Wellington." 

Mrs.  Sandon  chuckled,  and  murmured  some- 
thing about  the  whole  duty  of  daughters. 

"Then  I  believe  I  have  found  a  house.  That 
nice  boy  who  gave  us  supper  last  night  has  an  aunt 
or  something  who  wants  to  let  hers  in  Primate 
Street.  I  am  going  to  see  it  this  afternoon." 

Araby  came  into  the  room  at  this  moment.  She 
was  dressed  for  walking.  Her  mother  looked  at 
her  critically  from  her  hat  to  her  boots.  She  was 
wearing  a  dress  of  two  shades  of  brown,  against 
which  the  red  of  her  hair  struck  a  third  brilliant 
note  of  colour.  The  sense  of  harmony  was  com- 


28  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

plete;  Mrs.  Ruthven  found  herself  admiring  her 
daughter  in  spite  of  her  prejudices. 

The  day  was  bright  and  clear ;  sunshine  gilded 
London.  There  was  a  very  blue  sky,  and  the  tops 
of  the  houses  stood  out  against  it  clearly.  Mrs. 
Ruthven,  with  her  throat  nestling  in  soft  fur,  and 
a  hat  that  looked  very  simple  but  that  was  in  fact 
an  elaborate  creation,  and  threw  a  bewildering 
shadow  over  her  eyes,  was  conscious  that  she  was 
the  prettiest  woman  in  town,  and  accordingly  was 
very  gracious  to  Araby. 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  she  said,  "  I  am  not  sure  that 
you  are  not  useful  as  a  contrast.  You  have  some 
good  points.  Your  style  is  very  good,  Araby,  and 
if  you  would  only  take  the  trouble  to  acquire  a 
more  —  what  shall  I  say  ? — a  more  twentieth-cent- 
ury manner  you  would  get  on.  Why  did  n't  you 
talk  last  night  ?  You  allowed  Miss  Norfolk  to  mo- 
nopolize Mr.  Hartford  ;  you  must  learn  to  be  enter- 
taining." 

Araby  flushed  slightly. 

"  Would  you  wish  me  to  be  like  Miss  Norfolk?" 
she  asked,  with  a  little  hesitation. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  her  mother.  "  A  pleasant  and 
sensible  girl." 

She  stopped  the  hansom  as  she  spoke,  and  the 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  29 

two  ladies  alighted  opposite  a  jeweller's  in  Picca- 
dilly. The  window  held  an  attractive  array  of  silver 
cigarette-cases  and  match-boxes.  Mrs.  Ruthven 
wished  to  buy  a  present  for  a  friend  in  India.  She 
professed  herself  enchanted  with  the  silver  cases 
on  which,  in  bright  enamels,  were  painted  Sapphos, 
ballet  girls,  and  burlesque  boys.  Araby  thought 
them  pretty  too,  but  they  did  not  interest  her,  and 
one  or  two  of  them  seemed  to  her  of  questionable 
decency.  She  was  learning,  however,  that  she  must 
hold  her  tongue  and  judge  nothing. 

While  her  mother  bought  her  presents,  Araby's 
thoughts  ran  to  Miss  Norfolk,  the  pleasant  and 
sensible  girl  who  had  been  held  up  to  her  as  a 
pattern.  Possibly  Araby's  training  had  made  her 
narrow.  She  was  quite  ready  to  admit  that  this 
might  be  so,  and  perhaps  there  was  less  that  was 
wrong  than  she  supposed  in  some  of  the  remarks 
which  she  had  overheard  Miss  Norfolk  make  to 
Hartford  at  the  theatre.  Araby  scarcely  yet  under- 
stood a  type  that  is  in  reality  harmless,  and  that 
likes,  nevertheless,  to  pretend  to  a  knowledge  of 
the  seamy  side  of  life.  Miss  Norfolk  delighted 
in  being  a  little  outrageous,  and  the  fact  that  she 
knew  Araby  was  slightly  shocked  had  not  tended 
to  make  her  modify  her  sentiments. 


30  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Araby  thought  of  her  country  home.  Eccram, 
where  her  dull  and  happy  childhood  had  been 
passed,  must  be  illumined  to-day  by  this  golden 
autumn  sun.  The  trees  must  be  gorgeous,  —  yellow, 
orange,  red.  But  Eccram  was  beautiful  at  all 
times ;  and  Araby  sighed  as  she  thought  of  it.  Her 
life  there  was  monotonous,  and  in  a  certain  sense 
cramped,  but  it  had  its  quiet  pleasures,  and  she 
missed  its  content. 

She  was  attracted  and  repelled  by  the  new  life. 
She  was  fascinated  and  frightened.  She  had  been 
strictly  brought  up ;  now  she  found  herself  in  a 
place  where  nothing  was  wrong,  and  where  con- 
science was  an  inconvenience.  As  yet  she  was 
unable  to  affix  a  just  value  to  anything.  She  was 
bewildered  by  a  sense  of  inability  to  grasp  the 
meaning  of  much  that  went  on  around  her.  She 
had  had  all  sorts  of  ideas,  which  she  was  begin- 
ning to  look  upon  as  primitive.  Amongst  them 
had  been  the  odd,  not  to  say  ridiculous,  supposi- 
tion, that  marriage  was  the  concentration  of  the 
affections  upon  one  object.  She  tried  vainly 
to  adjust  a  balance  between  the  standards  of 
right  and  wrong  which  prevailed  in  the  world 
she  was  entering  and  her  own  preconceived 
notions  of  good  and  bad.  And  yet  she  had 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  31 

been  taught,  she  supposed,  what  others  too  had 
learnt. 

Of  her  mother  she  could  only  think  with  an  over- 
powering wonder.  She  scarcely  tried  to  understand 
her,  so  completely  did  Mrs.  Ruthven  seem  beyond 
her  comprehension  in  its  present  state.  The  early 
separation,  and  the  subsequent  living  apart  of  the 
mother  and  daughter,  had  prevented  any  close 
exchange  of  affection.  Yet,  under  like  conditions, 
Araby  felt  that  she  knew  her  father  far  more  inti- 
mately than  she  knew  her  mother.  She  had  seen 
him,  it  was  true,  once  since  the  first  parting  at 
Eccram,  when  both  her  parents  had  left  her  in  the 
care  of  the  Miss  Woottons.  The  impression  which 
his  kindness,  during  his  short  visit  to  England, 
made  upon  her  was  never  forgotten,  and  in  this  of 
course  Corbet  Ruthven  had  the  advantage  of  his 
wife.  To  Araby  her  father  had  a  personality,  her 
mother  was  a  name.  Mrs.  Ruthven  wrote  con- 
stantly, but  Araby  always  missed  something  in  her 
letters  which  instinct  told  her  should  be  there ;  and 
whatever  it  might  be  that  her  letters  lacked  those 
of  her  father  possessed  in  a  degree  that  insisted 
upon  comparison.  Corbet's  letters  were  short,  in- 
formal, and  without  any  pretention  to  style.  They 
were  irregular  in  their  arrival,  and  sometimes  they 


32  TIME^AND  THE  WOMAN 

contained  but  a  few  words  in  answer  perhaps  to  a 
question  of  his  daughter's ;  still  they  bore  unmis- 
takably the  evidence  of  an  affection  which  distance 
could  not  blunt. 

A  thing  that  had  often  puzzled  Araby  at  the 
time  was  the  absence  in  them  of  allusions  to  her 
•mother.  Mrs.  Ruthven  wrote  at  precise  intervals 
and  often  at  some  length.  She  had  a  plausible  pen, 
and  she  could  write  all  sorts  of  things  that  were 
beautiful  in  point  of  sentiment.  Araby  thought  of 
the  letter  announcing  the  return  to  England.  It 
contained  many  touching  protestations.  She  re- 
membered the  time  of  waiting  that  succeeded  it 
—  a  time  full  of  anticipations  and  wonderings, 
fraught  with  a  certain  nervousness,  which  she 
tried  in  vain  to  allay.  She  remembered  the  throb 
of  admiration  and  pride  with  which  she  greeted 
the  beautiful  woman  in  whom  she  recognized  her 
mother.  Something  chilled  her  in  her  mother's  kiss. 

The  jewellery,  the  shopman,  and  the  cigarette- 
cases  vanished ;  a  dewy  brightness  was  coming 
into  Araby' s  eyes,  when  the  sudden  rising  of  Mrs. 
Ruthven,  consequent  upon  the  completion  of  her 
purchase,  recalled  her  to  the  present.  The  final 
directions  as  to  the  sending  of  the  parcel  had  been 
given. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  33 

"  Come,  Araby,  I  am  waiting." 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  You  were  n't  much  help  to  me  in  choosing 
what  I  bought." 

Araby  scented  danger. 

"  I  did  n't  think  you  wanted  me  to  help  you, 
mother." 

"  You  are  always  thinking  or  not  thinking, 
Araby  —  another  fault  I  have  to  find  with  you." 

Araby  said  nothing.  People  looked  at  the  two 
beautiful  women  as  they  passed,  and  no  one  who 
thought  of  it  guessed  the  relationship  in  which 
they  stood  to  each  other.  Piccadilly  was  bright 
with  colour. 

"  Don't  sulk,  dear ;  it  is  not  attractive." 

"  Mother,  I  am  not  sulking." 

"  And  don't  answer  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven ; 
"  it  is  like  a  servant." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  after  this  continued  to  bait  her 
daughter  for  some  twenty  minutes,  and  to  the  verge 
of  tears.  Araby  bore  with  her  patiently.  She  was 
gentle  by  nature,  and,  moreover,  one  of  the  things 
that  she  had  learnt  from  the  old  aunts  at  Eccram 
was  the  duty  of  a  child  to  its  parents.  So  she  walked 
beside  her  mother,  doing  her  best  to  keep  her 
temper,  and  succeeding  in  a  way  which,  had  she 


34  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

only  known  it,  was  the  cause  of  her  protracted  tor- 
ture. She  was  wondering  whether  her  mother  was 
cruel.  She  took  an  opportunity  presently  of  look- 
ing at  her.  It  was  impossible  to  read  cruelty  in  the 
unruffled  good-humour  of  the  face  ;  Araby  decided 
that  at  once.  And  yet  those  red  lips  could  say 
words  that  stung.  How  very,  very  charming  her 
mother  looked  in  her  soft  furs,  and  how  much 
Araby  could  have  cared  for  her  if  she  had  been 
allowed ! 

"  Don't  stare,  Araby ;  it  is  bad  manners.  Do  you 
know  that  you  have  been  wretchedly  brought  up  ? 
I  shall  be  writing  to  those  two  dreadful  old  aunts 
of  your  father's,  in  a  day  or  two,  and  I  shall  make  a 
point  of  telling  them  what  I  think." 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  Araby,  quickly.  "They 
have  been  very  good  to  me  always.  You  know 
that,  mother.  They  have  done  their  best  for  me, 
and  if  you  think  I  have  turned  out  badly  it  is  n't 
their  fault.  Oh,  they  were  so  good  to  me.  When  I 
was  ill  that  time  two  years  ago,  they  took  it  in 
turns  to  sit  up  with  me,  and  Aunt  Laura  is  not  a 
bit  strong  herself.  You  must  n't  blame  them  for 
anything  ..." 

Araby  broke  off.  Her  heart  grew  big  at  the 
thought  of  the  old  life,  with  its  quiet  happiness  and 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  35 

its  atmosphere  of  love.  She  could  hear  nothing 
that  attacked  Eccram. 

"  They  never  thought  of  themselves,"  she  began, 
but  her  mother  interrupted  her. 

"  They  spoilt  you,  then,"  she  said.  "  And  now  I 
know  what  it  is  —  you  are  a  spoilt  child.  And  I 
hate  spoilt  children.  And  I  shall  write  all  the  same. 
And  you  must  n't  argue  with  me.  And  I  want  some 
gloves.  I  am  going  to  take  you  through  the  Bur- 
lington Arcade,  so  don't  look  about  you." 

Then  Araby  found  herself  wondering  whether 
her  mother  was  not  laughing  in  her  sleeve.  She 
could  not  tell.  Perhaps  it  may  have  been  the  result 
of  a  meeting  which  took  place  at  this  moment, 
but  for  whatever  reason,  Mrs.  Ruthven  presently 
altered  her  manner,  and  was  thenceforward  en- 
chanting, as  she  alone  knew  how  to  be,  for  the 
rest  of  the  morning. 

It  was  Hartford  who  was  strolling  disconsolately 
down  the  middle  of  the  Arcade.  His  face  bright- 
ened as  his  eyes  caught  those  of  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
He  turned  about  and  walked  with  the  two  ladies 
to  the  glove  shop.  After  his  first  smile  of  recogni- 
tion he  looked  tragic  and  spoke  bitterly.  Possibly 
Mrs.  Ruthven  saw  and  knew  the  signs  of  her  con- 
quest. She  asked  him  why  he  seemed  unhappy. 


36  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

There  was  nothing,  he  answered,  to  make  him 
seem  anything  else.  In  any  case,  what  matter? 
Life  was  made  up  of  unhappiness,  and  the  happi- 
est were  those  who  caused  most  to  others  and  who 
suffered  least  themselves. 

But  it  did  matter,  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  laughing 
softly.  And  why  did  he  speak  in  riddles  ?  and  why 
was  he  so  bitter  ? 

"  How  old  are  you,  my  good  boy  ?  " 

He  told  her. 

She  laughed  again. 

"  At  your  age  to  think  life  used  up !  To  have 
weighed  it  all  and  found  it  wanting  at  twenty- 
four!  Araby,  if  you  want  any  gloves  buy  them 
now.  Not  ?  Very  well.  How.  much  do  they  come 
to?  You  will  be  sure  to  send  them  to-day.  No, 
that  Js  all,  thank  you." 

Hartford  watched  her  as  she  put  on  once  more 
her  own  glove.  What  a  white  hand  it  was.  Her 
rings  sparkled  in  the  artificial  light  of  the  shop. 

"  Now  I  am  ready,"  she  said,  as  she  folded  up 
the  bill  and  put  it  into  her  purse.  "  It  is  very  nice 
of  you  not  to  be  bored  with  my  shopping,  Mr. 
Hartford.  Now  Araby  and  I  are  going  to  lunch  at 
the  Wellington.  The  streets  are  so  dry  I  think 
we  '11  walk.  I  don't  believe  you.  You  didn't  look 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  37 

a  bit  when  we  met  you  as  if  you  were  intending 
to  walk  along  Piccadilly." 

"I  intended  nothing,"  said  Hartford.  "I  had  no 
aims.  I  have  no  aims.  But  if  you'll  let  me  I 
should  like  to  walk  with  you  as  far  as  the  Wel- 
lington." 

He  cheered  up  somewhat  in  the  course  of  the 
next  few  minutes,  but  he  became  sombre  as  the 
three  approached  their  destination.  At  the  door  of 
the  club  Mrs.  Ruthven  held  out  her  hand. 

"You  want  a  good  talking  to,"  she  said,  "and 
a  great  deal  of  good  advice.  When  shall  I  give 
you  both?  I  shall  be  at  home  to-morrow  after- 
noon, if  you  like  to  come  and  see  me." 

He  hesitated.  His  sister  was  passing  through 
town,  and  he  had  promised  to  meet  her  and  de- 
vote to  her  a  couple  of  hours. 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

"  You  know  which  I  should  like,"  he  said,  hotly. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  shrugged  her  shoulders.  All  ges- 
tures took  a  charm  which  was  not  their  own  when 
she  employed  them.  They  seemed,  too,  to  acquire 
a  new  eloquence. 

"At  five,  then,  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

He  raised  his  hat  and  went  over  to  the  Bachelors' 
to  lunch,  and  to  write  to  the  sister  who  was  to  pass 


38  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

through  London  on  the  morrow,  and  who  was 
counting  upon  a  glimpse  of  her  brother. 

After  all,  he  wrote,  and  he  was  awfully  sorry,  an 
unforeseen  and  pressing  matter  would  prevent  his 
meeting  her  at  Paddington.  He  would  send  his 
servant  to  see  that  she  got  a  good  hansom  to  take 
her  over  to  Charing  Cross.  He  was  really  very 
sorry,  and  he  would  try  to  run  down  home  some 
time  soon. 

He  drank  a  pint  of  champagne,  perhaps  as  the 
result  of  his  present  frame  of  mind,  for  at  lunch  he 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  such  extravagance,  perhaps 
to  shut  out  the  persistent  vision  of  his  sister's  eyes 
with  tears  in  them. 


CHAPTER  IV 

MRS.  RUTHVEN  after  lunch  took  Araby  back  to 
Earl  Street.  She  sat  for  some  time  with  her  hostess. 
She  had  a  delightful  way  of  never  coming  in  with- 
out having  a  good  deal  to  tell,  and  she  entertained 
Mrs.  Sandon  with  an  account  of  her  morning. 

"  But  I  won't  have  you  making  my  pet  young 
men  unhappy,"  said  Mrs.  Sandon,  with  a  chuckle. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  laughed  merrily. 

"And  now  I  suppose  you  mean  to  try  your 
powers  upon  Gerald  Ventnor?"  said  Mrs.  Sandon. 
"  Johnnie,  dear,  I  disapprove  of  you  dreadfully." 

"  But  you  rather  like  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

"  And  very  much  against  my  better  judgment," 
said  Mrs.  Sandon. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  kissed  her,  and  rang  for  a  han- 
som, in  which  when  it  arrived  she  set  out  for  Bond 
Street. 

"  She  will  burn  her  fingers  yet,"  said  Mrs.  San- 
don to  herself,  as  she  heard  the  wheels  roll  away. 
Then  she  bethought  her  of  Araby,  for  whom  she 
was  really  in  a  manner  sorry. 


40  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  I  am  afraid  for  them  both,"  she  thought,  shak- 
ing her  head. 

Her  way  of  being  kind  to  her  friends  was  to  in- 
troduce them  to  each  other.  Accordingly,  she  told 
Araby  that  she  was  going  to  take  her  out  driving 
with  her,  and  Araby  had  a  kindly  and  dull  after- 
noon of  stately  visits.  In  the  course  of  these  she 
made  the  acquaintance  of  Lady  Ventnor,  Gerald's 
mother.  Lady  Ventnor  disapproved  of  girls,  only 
less  keenly  than  she  disapproved  of  young  mar- 
ried women.  She  was,  Mrs.  Sandon  averred,  in  a 
perpetual  state  of  apprehension  lest  her  son  should 
entangle  himself. 

"And  it  is  my  one  large  endeavour  to  alarm 
her,"  the  old  lady  said  afterwards.  "  That 's  why 
I  asked  him  to  dinner  to  meet  your  mother.  She 
is  not  exactly  a  young  woman,  but  she  is  danger- 
ous for  all  that.  I  wonder  what  Lady  Ventnor 
would  have  said  if  she  had  known  that  her  boy 
was  now  at  Castanet's  with  the  prettiest  woman  in 
London." 

The  shop  presented  its  usual  gay  appearance. 
The  window  held  a  bright  array  of  cases  in  costly 
device  for  holding  every  form  of  delicate  bon-bon. 
Pink  was  for  the  day  the  prevailing  colour.  Man- 
dolins tied  with  pink  ribbons  were  cunning  recep- 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  41 

tacles  for  the  most  recent  form  of  chocolate  nougat 
or  burnt  almond. 

Gerald  Ventnor  was  standing  a  few  yards  from 
the  door  when  Mrs.  Ruthven's  hansom  drew  up. 
He  was  talking  to  the  great  dog  that  sprawled  on 
the  threshold  of  an  adjacent  milliner's. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  saw  him  before  he  saw  her,  and 
while  she  was  still  unobserved  she  gave  him  a 
quick  glance  of  critical  approval ;  and,  in  truth,  he 
looked  fresh  and  neat  and  smart  in  a  way  that  was 
essentially  English. 

He  raised  his  head  and  saw  her. 

"  I  have  n't  kept  you  waiting  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  are  punctual.  I  was  before  my  time." 

They  entered  the  shop.  Some  sugar  violets 
caught  Mrs.  Ruthven's  attention,  and  she  asked 
him  whether  they  did  not  look  as  real  and  Neapol- 
itan as  those  that  she  was  wearing.  No.  Not  that 
table.  There  —  that  one  at  the  end. 

Ventnor  followed  her  as  she  threaded  her  way 
between  the  chairs  and  tables  to  the  place  she  had 
chosen.  He  felt  a  certain  complacent  pride  in  her 
beauty  as  he  saw  how  people  nudged  each  other 
as  she  passed. 

An  attendant  poured  chocolate  into  minute 
cups.  Gerald  looked  with  amusement  at  the  brown 


42  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

liquid  which  he  hated,  but  which  in  the  present 
instance  had  its  use  as  a  pretext  for  half  an  hour's 
amusement. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  had  singled  out  an  old  woman, 
glaringly  made  up  and  dressed  with  an  outrageous 
disregard  of  her  age,  who  was  fumbling  with 
trembling  fingers  for  a  coin  in  her  purse.  As  she 
turned  away  Mrs.  Ruthven  met  Gerald's  look  of 
inquiry. 

"  That  is  what  I  shall  come  to  some  day,"  she 
said,  with  a  shudder.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  looked 
on  death. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Ventnor,  cheerfully.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  was  to  him  as  old  as  she  looked,  and 
that  was  considerably  under  thirty.  He  did  not 
remember  Araby  at  the  moment,  but  Mrs.  Ruthven 
remembered  her.  Araby  was  to  her  the  outward 
and  visible  sign  of  many  things  that  she  would 
have  liked  to  forget.  But  the  mood  did  not  last. 
Mrs.  Ruthven  caught  sight  of  her  face  in  a  look- 
ing-glass, and  she  was  reassured.  Years  are  long, 
and  age  was  still  a  great  way  off.  The  thought 
too  of  Hartford's  recent  restlessness  contributed  at 
this  moment  to  remind  her  that  her  charm  was 
potent  as  ever.  After  all,  if  Araby  had  not  ex- 
isted— 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  43 

"You  met  Hartford  this  morning,"  Gerald  said, 
interrupting  her  thoughts. 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  I  left  him  half  an  hour  ago  at  the  club.  He 's 
an  odd  chap  —  moody,  uncertain.  He  has  no 
troubles  except  those  he  makes  for  himself,  and  he 
is  rather  good  at  making  them." 

Gerald  was  smiling. 

11  What  sort  of  troubles  ?  " 

"  Love,"  said  Ventnor.  He  put  down  his  empty 
cup,  and  wondered  why  he  drank  chocolate  when 
he  did  not  care  for  it. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  Inci- 
dentally, she  noted  a  small  scar  on  his  face.  It  was 
just  below  his  left  eye,  and  it  was  the  result  of  a 
fall  in  the  hunting-field. 

"  The  odd  part  of  it  is,"  he  said,  presently,  still 
smiling  meditatively,  "that  his  experiences  teach 
him  no  wisdom.  He  falls  in  love  perhaps  three 
times  in  a  year — seriously.  All  his  heart  affairs 
are  serious.  They  take  him  differently  at  different 
times.  He  will  be  silent,  or  he  will  talk  bitterly  of 
everything,  till  all 's  blue.  He  suffers  acutely  while 
the  fit  is  on  him.  His  life  is  full  of  one  person  for 
the  time  being  —  full,  I  tell  you.  He  knows  that  a 
month  later  he  may  be  feeling  all  the  same  things 


44  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

for  and  about  some  one  else,  but  while  he  is  under 
the  spell  of  any  particular  woman  she  could  make 
him  do  anything." 

" He  is  as  tractable  as  all  that?" 

"  He  is  absolutely  tractable.  He  is  like  the  lover 
in  the  fairy  story,  who  is  willing  to  perform  any 
task  an  exacting  mistress  may  choose  to  set  him. 
You  remember  the  sort  of  thing  one  used  to  read 
— '  Before  I  can  marry  you,  said  the  Princess,  you 
must  bring  me  the  wishing  flower,  which  blooms  at 
moon-rise  on  the  glass  mountain,  which  is  guarded 
day  and  night  by  the  dragon  of  the  sleepless  eye/ 
Hartford  would  be  off  like  a  shot." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  made  a  mental  note  of  this  trait 
in  Hartford's  character.  It  did  not  occur  to  her 
just  then  that  it  was  at  all  probable  that  it  could 
ever  be  of  use  to  her,  but  she  remembered  it  for 
all  that. 

"  Let  us  go  and  see  the  house,"  she  said. 

"  No  ;  let  us  sit  on  here  for  a  little  while." 

"Very  well;  tell  me  something  more  about  your 
friend." 

"  You  take  a  great  interest  in  him.  I  don't  know 
any  more." 

People  came  and  went.  The  attendants  moved 
deftly  to  and  fro.  There  was  a  hum  of  talk,  and  the 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  45 

occasional  sound  of  the  pouring  of  almonds  or 
caramels  into  the  brass  bowl  of  a  scale.  The  little 
French  maid  swung  the  door  open  and  shut. 

"  We  can't  sit  here  any  longer,"  said  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven,  presently.  "  Come,  let  us  go  and  see  the  house." 

The  autumn  afternoon  had  begun  to  close  in. 
Lights  on  cabs  and  carriages  flashed  past  in  Bond 
Street. 

"Why,  it  is  nearly  dark,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
"  I  forgot  that  it  would  be  dark.  Why  did  m't  you 
remind  me?" 

"I  didn't  think  of  it  at  the  time,"  Gerald  con- 
fessed, "  and  afterwards  —  " 

"Well  — afterwards?" 

"  It  is  too  late  to  go  now,  any  way,"  he  said, 
"  is  n't  it  ?  You  ought  to  see  it  in  the  day-time, 
oughtn't  you?  You  can't  see  a  house  comfortably 
in  the  dark.  It  is  a  thing  to  do  in  the  morning.  I 
ought  to  be  kicked,  oughtn't  I?" 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

He  followed  her  into  the  street. 

"Then  to-morrow  morning,"  he  said;  "have 
you  anything  to  do  to-morrow  morning  ?  Will  you 
come  then  ?  " 

"  It  is  partly  my  own  fault,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven, 
"  or  I  think  I  should  be  angry  with  you." 


46  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  And  I  'm  so  contrite,"  said  Gerald.  "  No,  you 
don't  want  a  hansom  yet.  Let  us  go  and  see  some 
pictures,  something"  (his  tongue  in  his  cheek) 
"  that  does  n't  want  light !  What  is  there  ?  Let  us 
go  into  the  first  gallery  we  come  to." 

They  began  to  walk  down  the  street.  She  was  in 
truth  nothing  loath  to  know  that  she  should  see 
him  the  next  day. 

"  You  '11  come  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  to-morrow."  u 

"You 're  not  angry?" 

"  No." 

The  visit  to  the  gallery  was  not  quite  successful. 
It  chanced  that  Mrs.  Sandon,  having  come  to  an 
end  of  her  cards,  had  proposed  to  show  Araby 
some  pictures  —  also  by  artificial  light !  Araby  had 
seen  nothing,  and  was  delighted.  There  was  a 
picture  of  note  at  the  gallery  which  Gerald  and 
Mrs.  Ruthven  had  happened  to  enter. 


CHAPTER  V 

MRS.  RUTHVEN  established  herself  in  Primate 
Street.  The  house,  with  the  usual  drawbacks,  was 
as  nearly  as  possible  the  sort  of  house  she  was  seek- 
ing, and  matters  were  quickly  arranged.  Gerald 
Ventnor' s  cousin  bounced  off  in  high  glee  to  Cannes 
or  Mentone,  and  Lady  Ventnor  raised  her  eye- 
brows and  said  to  her  daughter,  — 

"Who  is  this  Mrs.  Ruthven  who  has  taken 
Audrey 's  house  ?  " 

Miss  Ventnor,  it  happened,  shared  Mrs.  San- 
don's  delight  in  causing  Lady  Ventnor  alarm  on 
Gerald's  account,  so  she  said,  — 

"The  mother  of  that  very  lovely  girl  with  the  sun- 
set hair  who  came  here  one  day  with  Mrs.  Sandon. 
But  Gerald  can  tell  you  more.  They  are  his  friends. 
He  speaks  of  Mrs.  Ruthven  as  one  of  the  most 
charming  women  he  has  ever  seen." 

"  I  never  like  Mrs.  Sandon's  friends,"  said  Lady 
Ventnor.  "  I  don't  know  what  it  is  about  her,  but 
I  never  quite  trust  that  woman." 

" '  That  woman/ "  said  Miss  Ventnor,  with 
Gerald's  smile. 


48  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Well,  you  know,  her  husband,"  began  Lady 
Ventnor,  "  very  nearly  —  " 

"  Which  is  n't  true,"  said  Miss  Ventnor,  avert- 
ing a  little  tale  of  scandal.  "  The  whole  story  was 
contradicted,  and  in  any  case  ;you  were  glad 
enough  to  make  friends  with  them  and  secure 
their  interest  for  papa  when  he  first  stood  for  the 
Lecton  division  of  Midlandshire,  and  they  lived  in 
the  county." 

"  My  dear,  that  was  a  political  matter." 

"  Gerald 's  going  to  take  me  to  see  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven,"  said  Miss  Ventnor.  "  He  says  she  is  delight- 
ful to  girls  if  she  likes  them.  He  goes  there  every 
day  himself,  and  I  really  believe  that  is  what  is 
keeping  him  in  town.  He  says  of  course  that  he 
can't  hunt  till  the  alterations  in  the  stables  at  home 
are  finished,  but  /  think  —  " 

"  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  goes  to  Primate  Street  every  day. 
I  wonder  which  he  goes  to  see,  Mrs.  Ruthven  or 
her  daughter.  They  are  both  apparently  the  same 
age." 

Lady  Ventnor  had  a  fearful  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  when  a  visitor  during  the  course  of  the  after- 
noon happened  casually  to  mention  Mrs.  Ruthven's 
name  in  connection  with  that  of  Gerald,  Lady 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  49 

Ventnor,  to  her  daughter's  keen  amusement,  said 
something  about  not  being  acquainted  with  Mrs. 
—  er  —  Ruthven,  a  friend,  she  understood,  of  Mrs. 
Sandon,  whom  she  therewith  began  to  abuse. 

Mrs.  Sandon  in  course  of  time  heard  much  of 
what  Lady  Ventnor  said,  and  it  made  her  chuckle, 
whenever  she  thought  of  it,  off  and  on  for  a  week. 

The  few  months  that  had  followed  directly  upon 
Mrs.  Ruthven's  return  from  India  had  been  spent 
in  visits  with  her  daughter  to  friends  and  relations 
in  the  country  and  London;  consequently  it  was 
now  that  Araby  was  having  her  first  real  experi- 
ence of  her  mother's  unrelieved  society.  Less  than 
ever  did  she  understand  the  brilliant  woman  to 
whom  she  was  so  nearly  related. 

Araby 's  chief  sensation  was  one  of  loneliness. 
Not  that  the  house  in  Primate  Street  was  ever 
empty  ;  a  constant  succession  of  visitors  filled  the 
drawing-room.  Friends  of  Mrs.  Sandon  called,  and 
these  were  many;  friends  and  relations  of  Mrs. 
Ruthven  herself ;  and  others.  Mrs.  Ruthven  dined 
out  constantly,  and  Araby,  who  was  not  to  be  pre- 
sented till  the  spring,  was  left  much  to  herself.  A 
girl  whose  instincts  were  less  affectionate  would 
have  suffered  less.  She  longed  for  her  father  in 
these  days,  and  she  looked  on  into  the  future  with 


50  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

dread.  The  return  of  her  mother  was,  she  told  her- 
self, the  beginning  of  sorrows.  She  began  to  un- 
derstand something  perhaps  of  the  state  of  affairs 
that  existed  between  her  parents,  and  this  did  not 
tend  to  make  her  happier. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  collected  young  men  as  a  stone 
gathers  moss.  They  sprung  from  everywhere. 
Some  of  these  were  attentive  to  Araby,  but  she 
was  reserved  just  then  and  unresponsive. 

So  passed  November  and  December.  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven had  reached  England  in  August. 

Mrs.  Sandon  watched  Primate  Street  with  amuse- 
ment, but  with  fear  also. 

"  You  can't  reason  with  Johnnie,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "  I  have  a  sort  of  idea  that  Araby  ought 
to  be  taken  away  from  her,  but  what  can  one  do  ? 
I  have  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  where  the 
girl  is  concerned  Johnnie  is  absolutely  unscrupu- 
lous. I  am  horribly  afraid  of  Araby  being  some- 
how sacrificed.  I  don't  know  a  bit  in  what  way  or 
why.  I  am  apprehensive  —  just  that,  apprehen- 
sive." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  meanwhile,  in  her  irresponsible 
way,  was  uncertain  as  a  barometer.  One  day  she 
made  herself  so  delightful  to  her  daughter  that 
Araby  herself  began  to  hope  for  the  future ;  the 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  51 

next  nothing  satisfied  her.  And  Araby,  so  far  as 
she  knew,  was  blameless.  In  a  hundred  small 
ways  she  tried  to  please  her  mother,  and  she 
failed. 

"  You  're  so  aggressively  unlike  me,"  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven  said  one  day.  "  There  is  no  chance  of  my  ever 
getting  to  care  for  you,  except  by  fits  and  starts. 
Perhaps  you  may  say  that  I'm  not  the  sort  of 
woman  who  ever  does  like  girls.  You  are  quite 
impudent  enough  to  say  so." 

She  paused  for  Araby  to  protest,  as  at  one  time, 
and  before  she  had  learnt  a  certain  wisdom,  she 
would  have  protested,  but  Araby  was  silent. 

"  But  you  are  wrong,"  Mrs.  Ruthven  continued, 
impatient  that  her  assertion  should  not  have  evoked 
a  contradiction.  "  You  are  wrong,  as  you  are  about 
most  things  that  concern  your  mother.  I  like  some 
girls  very  much.  "And  I  can  tell  you  that  girls 
adore  me.  I  see  you  don't  believe  me,  but  it  is 
true.  They  look  up  to  me.  The  only  thing  for  it 
will  be  for  me  to  marry  you  early  —  if  I  can.  You 
will  have  to  accept  the  first  man  who  makes  you 
an  offer,  Araby.  I  dbn't  care  who  he  is,  you  will 
have  to  marry  him." 

Araby 's  laugh  had  a  shade  of  defiance. 

"  I  see  nothing  to  laugh  at,"  her  mother  said, 


52  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

with  a  grave  mouth  but  with  twinkling  eyes  that 
upset  Araby' s  theories.  Mrs.  Ruthven  was  in- 
scrutable upon  occasion  as  the  Sphinx  or  Gerald 
himself,  and  withal  she  was  made  up  of  contradic- 
tions to  a  degree  that  was  bewildering.  "  Nothing 
on  earth  to  laugh  at,"  she  continued ;  "  you  may 
never  get  an  opportunity  at  all.  What  is  it  about 
you  ?  The  colour  of  your  hair,  do  you  think  ?  " 

"Mr.  Ventnor,"  said  Araby,  quietly,  "said  my 
hair  reminded  him  of  Romney's  Lady  Hamilton." 

"That  was  very  amiable  of  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Ruthven. 

But  Araby  could  see  for  herself  the  value  of  her 
own  brilliance  of  colouring,  and  on  this  point  her 
mother  could  not  wound  her. 

"  If  you  don't  marry  in  a  year,"  said  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven, "  I  think  I  shall  send  you  out  to  India ;  I 
think  I  shall  have  done  my  share  by  that  time,  and 
your  father  will  have  to  take  his  turn.  He  shirks 
all  his  responsibilities.  What's  that  you  say?" 

"  I  said,  '  Poor  father ! '  "  said  Araby. 

"  Go  to  your  own  room."  Mrs.  Ruthven's  eyes 
did  not  twinkle.  "  Go  to  your  own  room,  and  don't 
come  down  till  I  give  you  leave." 

Araby,  goaded  to  anger,  had  it  on  the  tip  of  her 
tongue  to  remind  her  that  her  daughter  was  no 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  53 

longer  a  child.  But  she  was  ashamed  of  her  thought 
almost  as  it  came  to  her,  and  instead  of  answering 
she  looked  about  for  a  book  to  take  with  her. 

"  Put  that  down  ! "  said  her  mother. 

Araby  hesitated,  and  —  obeyed. 

"  You  're  not  to  do  anything.  You  're  to  sit  with 
your  hands  in  your  lap,  till  you're  in  a  better 
frame  of  mind." 

Araby  left  the  room.  Her  lips  trembled  with  her 
just  rage,  but  she  did  not  slam  the  door,  as  Mrs. 
Ruthven  half-hoped  she  would  do. 

On  the  landing,  a  square  white  place,  with 
miniature  pillars  and  yellow  silk  hangings  Araby 
met  Ventnor.  He  was,  as  we  know,  a  constant 
visitor  in  Primate  Street,  and  he  came  up  some- 
times without  being  announced.  There  was  nothing 
to  mark  this  chance  meeting,  yet  each  afterwards 
attached  to  it  a  curious  importance.  It  was  as  if 
the  eyes  of  both  were  opened.  Araby,  who  had 
seen  him  a  hundred  times,  thought  that  she  had 
never  before  quite  known  what  he  was  like ;  and 
he  for  the  first  time  was  struck  with  her  beauty. 
The  recent  passage  at  arms  had  heightened  the 
pink  in  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were  sparkling. 

He  shook  hands  with  her.  She  was  going  to 
pass  on,  but  he  stopped  her. 


54  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"Why  do  you  run  away?" 

She  laughed  softly.  She  had  a  musical  laugh. 
He  detected  in  it  a  curious  ring. 

"It  isn't  polite,  you  know,  to  run  away  the 
minute  I  arrive.  Come  back  into  the  drawing- 
room.  Is  Mrs.  Ruthven  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  mother  is  there.  But  I  won't  go  back." 

"Why  not?" 

He  wished  to  detain  her.  He  wondered  that  she 
had  not  impressed  him  before.  What  bright  eyes 
she  had !  How  fine  and  delicate  and  fresh  was  her 
skin! 

"Why  not?" 

"Because—" 

She  was  half  inclined  to  tell  him.  After  all,  it 
was  so  very  ridiculous.  Her  mother  deserved  that 
he  should  be  told. 

But  instead  she  laughed  again,  shook  her  head, 
and  left  him.  He  watched  her  as  she  bounded 
lightly  up  the  narrow  white  stairs. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  hailed  his  appearance  with  mani- 
fest delight.  She  was  a  woman  who  could  not 
bear  to  be  alone.  She  was  bored,  and  she  was 
already  regretting  having  sent  Araby  away,  and 
so  deprived  herself  of  the  pleasure  of  teasing  her. 

"  Oh,  it  is  so  dull,"  she  said,  "  so  appallingly 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  55 

dull.  I  was  wondering  how  I  should  get  through 
the  rest  of  the  day.  I  was  on  the  point  of  ringing 
for  Olympe  to  come  and  talk  to  me.  She  can  be 
entertaining  when  she  chooses.  I  am  so  glad  you 
came  in.  What  are  you  doing  to-night?  Nothing? 
Really !  Then  do  let  us  devise  some  amusement. 
I  was  going  to  Mrs.  Sandon,  but  she  has  a  cold, 
and  has  put  me  off.  Will  you  dine  here  ?  I  wonder 
whether  I  could  get  any  one  else  at  a  few  hours' 
notice.  Where  would  a  telegram  find  Mr.  Hart- 
ford?" 

"  I  left  him  at  the  club  an  hour  ago,"  said 
Ventnor. 

"The  Bachelors?  Bring  me  some  of  the  forms 
you  will  see  on  that  writing-table.  I'll  ask  the 
Norfolk  girl  on  chance.  Where  shall  we  go  ?  The 
Gaiety  ?  Yes,  the  Gaiety  if  we  can  get  seats.  I  '11 
telegraph  at  once.  Ring  the  bell,  please.  It  had 
better  be  a  box,  as  I  don't  know  how  many  we 
may  be." 

The  messages  were  despatched.  Then  Gerald 
and  Mrs.  Ruthven  sat  by  the  fire,  and  talked  for 
an  hour. 

Araby,  meanwhile,  having  recovered  her  good 
humor,  was  sitting  comfortably  by  her  own  hearth 
and  discussing  the  world  in  general  with  Olympe. 


56  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Olympe  had  opinions,  and  she  aired  them.  She 
was  cynical.  All  men  and  most  women  she  thought 
were  deceivers,  and  she  said  so  in  French  and 
English.  She  had  a  way  of  translating  herself  from 
the  one  to  the  other.  She  had  had  a  love-affair  in 
her  early  youth,  and  she  knew  what  she  was  talk- 
ing about. 

"  J'en  ai  assez.  I  have  enough.  I  want  no  more. 
Never  again  —  not  me.  No  fear.  Pas  si  b£te.  Not 
so  stupid." 

A  knock  made  itself  heard.  Mrs.  Ruthven  de- 
sired Miss  Araby's  presence  in  the  drawing-room. 

Araby  was  received  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
This  was  another  of  those  things  which  puzzled 
her.  Mrs.  Ruthven  chose  to  ignore  all  that  had 
gone  before. 

"  Life  is  too  short,"  she  said  to  Araby  one  day, 
"to  make  it  worth  while  to  keep  up  one's  resent- 
ments. If  you  annoy  me  in  any  way,  either  apolo- 
gize at  the  time  or  not  at  all.  I  never  wish  to  be 
reminded  of  anything  that  is  over.  If  I  want  to  be 
angry  with  you  I  shall  soon  find  a  fresh  oppor- 
tunity, so  let  the  old  score  slide." 

Upon  her  daughter's  appearance  Mrs.  Ruthven 
said  something  playful  about  Araby's  afternoon 
sleep.  Araby  looked  into  the  fire  and  smiled  to 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  57 

herself.  A  dancing  flame  caught  the  gold  in  her 
hair,  and  Gerald  found  himself  noting  it. 

"Go  and  sing,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  suddenly. 

Araby,  accustomed  to  obeying,  went  to  the  piano. 
Gerald  opened  it  for  her. 

"What  shall  I  sing ?" 

"Araby  sings  *  Home,  sweet  Home/  "  said  Mrs. 
Ruthven.  "Sing  that,  dear.  I  think  that's  suf- 
ficiently appropriate." 

Ventnor  looked  round.  Mrs.  Ruthven  was  laugh- 
ing softly  at  her  own  thoughts.  Araby  began  to 
sing.  Her  voice  was  sweet,  and  though  it  was 
quite  untrained,  she  used  it  with  a  very  fair 
method.  Gerald  in  spite  of  himself  found  himself 
thinking  of  an  abstract  home.  It  held — not  Lady 
Ventnor. 

In  the  firelight  of  the  room  ( Araby' s  music  needed 
no  candles,  and  the  lamps  had  not  yet  been  brought 
in)  he  looked  at  the  straight  and  slender  form  at 
the  piano,  the  gentle  hands,  the  parted  lips,  and 
the  earnest  face  —  it  was  childish  and  pathetic  — 
and  the  hair  of  flame. 

The  girl  was  very  beautiful,  he  thought,  and  he 
had  only  just  discovered  it. 

"  Now  sing  '  Annie  Laurie.'  " 

But  Araby  was  thinking  of  Eccram,  of  the  dull 


58  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

happy  days,  of  the  two  old  aunts  who  loved  her. 
Something  new  in  Gerald's  manner  unnerved 
her. 

"  Not  now,"  she  said,  a  little  huskily,  and  with 
glistening  eyes.  "  I  will  play  something  instead." 

Soon  after  this  a  couple  of  telegrams  arrived 
simultaneously,  and  were  brought  to  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
They  contained  respectively  the  acceptances  of  her 
invitations  to  Hartford  and  Miss  Norfolk. 

"  What  shall  we  do  if  we  can't  get  places?  "  said 
Mrs.  Ruthven.  "  I  ought  to  have  had  an  answer 
from  the  theatre  by  this  time." 

Ten  minutes  later  a  third  yellow  envelope  was 
brought  to  her. 

"  There  is  n't  a  box,"  she  said,  when  she  had  torn 
it  open  and  read  the  contents.  "  I  can  have  four 
stalls  together,  and  one  in  another  row." 

She  thought  for  a  few  moments. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  amuse  yourself  at 
home,  Araby." 

Gerald's  eyeglass  sent  a  gleam  of  reflected  fire- 
light across  the  wall  as  the  wearer  of  it  turned  in 
the  direction  of  the  speaker. 

"May  I  go  with  Olympe  to  the  St.  James's 
Hall?"  said  Araby,  after  a  pause. 

She  mentioned  a  singer  she  wished  to  hear.  She 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  59 

was  not  disappointed  in  reality,  though  she  was 
sure  that  Gerald  thought  her  so,  and  it  was  with 
an  effort  that  she  made  her  voice  sound  unstrained. 
Mrs.  Ruthven  was  writing  her  telegram  engaging 
the  four  places. 

"  But  there  are  five  stalls,"  said  Ventnor,  "  and 
we  are  five." 

"  And  one  of  you  would  have  to  sit  out  by  him- 
self," said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  shaking  her  head.  "  No, 
that  sort  of  arrangement  is  most  uncomfortable. 
Araby  must  be  content  not  to  come.  It  can't  be 
helped." 

She  rang  as  she  spoke,  and  gave  the  message 
to  the  servant  as  soon  as  he  appeared,  directing 
that  it  should  be  despatched  forthwith. 

"  Still  it 's  rather  rough  on — on  us,"  said  Gerald, 
in  a  tone  of  half-serious  and  half-playful  remon- 
strance. 

Araby  wished  that  he  would  understand  that  she 
did  not  mind. 

"Yes,  upon  my  word  it's  too  bad,"  he  said,  less 
playfully,  as  if  he  realized  more  fully  the  leaving 
out  of  Araby  from  the  plan  of  the  evening's  amuse- 
ment. He  rose  to  his  feet.  "  Let  me  stop  him. 
Look  here,  let  us  have  that  fifth  stall.  I  '11  sit  in 
it." 


60  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort,  Mr  Ventnor. 
The  telegram  is  gone.  Araby  does  n't  care  for  a 
burlesque ;  she  does  n't  understand  it.  And  any 
way  she  is  young  enough  to  be  able  to  do  without 
diversion  for  one  night." 

Gerald  sat  down  again  unconvinced.  Araby 
looked  at  her  mother  and  feared  a  storm.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  appeared  unruffled,  but  Araby  thought 
she  was  angry. 

"  And  I  think  I  would  almost  rather  go  to  the 
concert,"  Araby  said.  She  glanced  at  Gerald  then, 
hoping  to  silence  him. 

Mrs.  Ruthven,  though  for  no  particular  reason, 
unless  indeed  she  was  annoyed  by  Ventnor' s  atti- 
tude, was  inclined  to  refuse.  She  thought  better 
of  ker  inclination,  however,  and  gave  a  conditional 
consent 

"If,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  change  my  mind,  and  if 
Olympe  can  be  got  to  look  sufficiently  respectable 
—  Olympe  paints  her  face,  and  tires  her  head,  and 
is  altogether  rather  like  Jezebel  —  you  can  go." 

Then  Gerald  went  home  to  dress. 


CHAPTER  VI 

WHATEVER  may  have  been  the  impression  which 
Araby  made  upon  Gerald  Ventnor  that  afternoon, 
it  was  Mrs.  Ruthven  who  absorbed  his  attention 
at  dinner.  Her  appeal  was  always  to  the  senses, 
and  her  brilliance  eclipsed  the  less  assertive  charms 
of  Araby  and  Miss  Norfolk, 

Miss  Norfolk,  it  is  true,  had  no  very  strong 
claim  to  good  looks.  She  had  the  prettiness  of  a 
thousand  London  girls  who  keep  their  eyes  open, 
and  are  on  the  alert  to  note  the  smallest  change 
of  fashion.  She  had  a  reputation  for  dressing 
rather  well,  and  continued  to  maintain  it.  Her 
friends  would  have  been  astonished  to  know  upon 
how  limited  an  allowance  she  produced  her  effects. 
Indeed  it  would  have  opened  a  good  many  eyes  if 
the  figures  that  represented  the  entire  income  that 
was  made  to  meet  the  expenses  of  the  house  in 
Sloane  Street  had  even  been  disclosed.  Mrs.  Nor- 
folk with  six  marriageable  girls  of  moderate  charms 
but  sufficient  wits  knew  the  value  of  a  good  ad- 
dress, and  gave  her  daughters  this  advantage  to 


62  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

start  from.  The  rest  they  must  do  for  themselves. 
In  the  work-room  then,  at  the  top  of  a  house  that 
was  to  be  found  in  the  Red  Book  and  the  Blue 
Book  and  Boyle's  Court  Guide,  and  whatever  other 
directories  make  it  their  business  to  chronicle  the 
address  of  the  elect,  Miss  Norfolk  and  her  five 
sisters  spent  a  certain  number  of  hours  each  week, 
in  company  with  a  maid,  a  couple  of  large  pairs 
of  scissors,  and  a  sewing-machine.  They  were 
clever  girls,  and  they  made  the  most  of  an  abun- 
dant stock  of  ideas,  and  the  least  possible  quantity 
of  such  materials  as  were  expensive.  The  result  of 
their  diligence,  their  observation,  and  "what  the 
maid  called  their  "  inventativeness,"  was  that  Mrs. 
Norfolk's  girls  were  better  turned  out  than  two- 
thirds  of  those  of  her  friends  whose  income  doubled 
or  trebled  her  own. 

Miss  Norfolk  looked  at  Mrs.  Ruthven,  and 
thought  of  herself  that,  for  to-night  at  least,  she 
was  somewhat  unfairly  handicapped. 

"  I  wonder  whether  I  am  asked  here  for  foil," 
she  thought,  suddenly  pausing  in  eating  her  soup. 
"  Mrs.  Ruthven  is  too  good-looking  to  give  one  a 
chance.  She  is  like  electric  light ;  and  I  feel  like  the 
flame  of  a  candle." 

Miss  Norfolk,  howeyer,  went  on  to  reflect,  that 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  63 

but  for  Mrs.  Ruthven  she  would  be  at  that  moment 
dining  at  home  on  roast  mutton  and  rice-pudding, 
and  with  a  dull  evening  before  her.  So  she  ate  her 
soup  like  a  good  girl,  and  was  thankful  for  that 
and  other  mercies. 

Araby  did  not  mind  being  eclipsed.  But  there 
was  something  that  she  did  mind,  and  for  the 
first  time.  Miss  Norfolk  found  Hartford  rather 
silent.  She  saw  that  he  could  not  keep  his  eyes 
from  the  end  of  the  table. 

"  He  shall  though,"  she  said  to  herself,  and  in 
twenty  minutes,  and  possibly  with  the  unconscious 
aid  of  Mrs.  Ruthven's  excellent  champagne,  which 
he  was  drinking  pretty  freely,  she  had  the  satisfac- 
tion of  securing  his  attention. 

"  All  the  same,"  she  told  him,  "  you  are  awfully 
dull,  are  n't  you  ?  —  dull,  but  dull !  dull  to  break 
everything ! " 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  Shocking  bad  company. 
It  is  very  good  of  you  to  put  up  with  me." 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  have  to  put  up  with  you," 
said  Miss  Norfolk ;  "  there 's  nobody  else." 

She  caught  Araby's  eye  and  admired  the  flowers 
on  the  table.  She  was  sure  that  Miss  Ruthven  had 
arranged  them.  "  I  wish  I  had  your  happy  knack. 
I  do  ours  at  home,  but  somehow  they  always  look 


64          TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

lumpy.  These  are  lovely  —  quite  lovely  —  too 
lovely ! " 

Araby  saw  that  Miss  Norfolk  was  not  thinking 
of  what  she  was  saying,  so  she  did  not  respond 
much;  and  Miss  Norfolk,  having  murmured 
"  Quite  lovely  "  three  or  four  times  to  herself,  re- 
turned to  the  conquest  of  Hartford. 

Dinner  proceeded  smoothly,  and  with  that  ab- 
sence of  delays  that  means  good  service,  which  in 
turn  implies  good  wages.  Mrs.  Ruthven,  while  she 
exacted  the  utmost  attention  to  her  orders,  always 
managed  to  keep  on  good  terms  with  her  servants, 
and  the  result  was  comfort  and  freedom  from  small 
annoyances.  The  butler  and  a  smart  maid  moved 
with  noiseless  tread  and  mutual  silent  understand- 
ing. The  menu  itself  was  short  and  unelaborate, 
but  each  dish  was  perfect  of  its  kind. 

Araby,  sitting  between  the  girl  of  the  end  of  the 
century  and  Gerald  Ventnor,  had  time  to  think  a 
good  deal. 

Mrs.  Ruthven's  laugh  sounded  often.  Her  bore- 
dom of  the  earlier  part  of  the  day  was  gone,  and 
her  spirits  had  risen  in  proportion.  She  seemed  not 
ill-disposed  towards  her  daughter,  to  whom  she 
addressed  an  occasional  remark.  Perhaps  she  saw 
that  her  own  possession  of  Gerald  was  to-night 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  65 

more  complete  than  it  had  been  heretofore,  and 
she  could  afford  the  optimism  which  extended  its 
goodwill  even  to  Araby. 

Dinner  approached  its  end.  Araby  looked  at 
the  clock  ;  she  made  her  excuses  and  rose.  Gerald, 
with  a  sudden  misgiving,  realized  how  he  had 
neglected  one  of  his  neighbours  for  the  other. 
Araby 's  smile  of  thanks  was  a  little  pale  as  he  held 
the  door  open  for  her.  It  lingered  in  his  memory 
afterwards. 

Miss  Norfolk  carried  on  her  plan  of  campaign. 
She  was  very  wide  awake,  and  shewed  herself 
sympathetic  and  understanding.  Hartford  was 
transparent  to  her  as  glass. 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  Mrs.  Ruthven 
caught  her  attention.  Miss  Norfolk's  face  bore 
the  nearest  approach  to  a  blush  of  which  it  was 
capable,  when  she  found  that  her  hostess  was 
waiting. 

"  We  must  get  our  cloaks,"  Mrs.  Ruthven  said, 
smiling,  "and  have  our  coffee  when  we  come 
down.  Ring  for  it,  Mr.  Ventnor." 

Ten  minutes  later  a  brougham  and  a  hansom 
left  Primate  Street. 

In  the  clear  and  frosty  night  the  buildings  cut 
themselves  sharply  against  the  sky.  There  were 


66  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

many  stars.  Gerald,  in  the  hansom  with  Hartford, 
and  in  a  curious  mood,  felt  a  sudden  wish  for  the 
country.  With  it,  and  with  or  without  reason, 
came  a  thought  of  Araby.  How  he  had  neglected 
her !  He  liked  to  think  that  she  was  going  to  hear 
beautiful  music. 

Then,  the  glamour  of  the  starlit  night  over  him, 
he  became  conscious  of  seeing  London  itself  newly, 
—  just  as  that  day  he  had  seen  Araby  newly, — and 
he  saw  that  it  was  an  enchanted  city.  Tiny  points 
of  frost  were  sparkling  on  the  ground  under  a 
lamp.  Shadows  were  vague  and  mysterious. 
Lights  on  cabs  and  carriages  looked  in  the  dis- 
tance like  large  fireflies.  Trafalgar  Square  was 
powdered  with  a  fine  snow  that  had  fallen  at  sun- 
down, and  that  lay  softly  on  the  lions  and  the  steps. 
He  was  sure  that  the  trees  in  the  parks  must  be 
white  with  it  and  rime.  An  enchanted  city !  Were 
the  buildings  of  silver  as  they  looked  on  such  a 
night  ?  He  wished  that  he  could  be  high  up  some- 
where, that  he  might  look  down  upon  the  whitened 
roofs  and  streets,  upon  the  moonlit  walls  and 
churches  and  chimneys,  and  river  and  bridges 
and  wharves.  The  thought  of  these  things  brought 
them  before  him  vividly.  Gerald  surely  in  an  un- 
usual mood ! 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  67 

He  came  to  himself  in  the  Strand.  This  the  still 
beauty  of  the  night  could  not  enchant.  But  it 
had  a  beauty  of  its  own,  in  which  the  crowds  had 
part — the  rush  of  life  and  the  very  noise  of  it.  Here 
and  there  the  lights  of  shops  or  theatres  illumined 
straining  horses  and  hurrying  people. 

The  cab  drew  up  presently  at  the  theatre,  and  a 
few  moments  later,  the  brougham  with  the  others. 

The  four  stalls  were  in  the  middle  of  the  house. 
Gerald,  from  his,  looked  about,  and  wondered 
which  was  that  seat  in  another  row  which  he  asso- 
ciated with  the  absence  of  Araby.  He  felt  somehow 
as  if  she  must  be  sitting  there  all  by  herself,  and 
again  he  thought  of  how  he  had  neglected  her  at 
dinner.  His  thoughts  ran  back  to  another  night 
also  when  she  had  been  left  out  of  part  of  the  plan 
of  the  evening's  amusement.  He  looked  at  Mrs. 
Ruthven  speculatively.  But  she  met  his  eyes  by 
chance  and  smiled,  and  he  ceased  to  think  of 
Araby. 

Then  the  curtain  rose  to  a  swinging  chorus,  and, 
with  the  rest,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  influences 
of  the  moment.  Pretty  faces,  shapely  limbs,  and 
gorgeous  and  beautiful  colours  claimed  the  eyes  ; 
light  melodies  the  ears.  Here  nothing  was  asked 
of  you.  The  play,  if  you  could  call  it  a  play,  was 


68  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

like  champagne ;  sparkling,  and  each  sparkle  a  tiny 
bubble  dancing  to  the  surface,  and  the  bubble  a 
speck  of  air.  But  like  champagne,  it  intoxicated.  The 
players  were  a  pack  of  children  romping  through 
a  game,  wanton,  irresponsible,  light-hearted,  in- 
fected with  the  joy  of  living.  These  were  the  first 
days  of  the  dancing  girls  ;  the  last,  though  no  one 
knew  it  yet,  of  the  Sacred  Lamp.  Here  and  there 
amongst  the  audience  a  foot  tapped,  now  and  then, 
to  the  exuberant  measures  of  an  air  that  was  not 
to  be  resisted.  Ribbons  and  filmy  things  floated 
out  from  the  dresses  of  the  dancers,  and  followed 
with  curved  flutterings  the  movements  of  their 
bodies  in  the  tangle  of  the  dance.  The  house  was 
full  —  even  Araby's  stall  had  been  taken. 

Gerald,  though  he  did  not  know  which  that  fifth 
stall  was,  saw  presently  that  not  one  was  empty. 
Once  more  he  thought  of  Araby,  and  his  conscience 
pricked  him.  A  girl  in  the  chorus  had  red  hair  that 
reminded  him  vaguely  of  hers.  Then  he  thought 
of  her  soft  eyes,  and  then  —  he  was  listening  to  a 
voice  that  never  failed  to  please  him,  and  again  he 
forgot  her.  The  words  of  the  song,  which  were  in 
some  sort  a  eulogy  of  fickleness,  had  a  perverse 
charm  of  their  own ;  and  the  air,  written  to  exploit 
to  their  greatest  advantage  the  deep  and  the  high 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  69 

notes  of  the  singer,  was  full  of  sudden  contrasts. 
Midway  through  each  verse  a  change  of  key  sur- 
prised you.  And  so  from  thinking  of  Araby's  soft 
eyes  he  fell  to  noting  the  dancing  eyes  of  the 
singer,  and  the  play  of  expression  on  the  laughing 
face.  The  story  made  a  little  Way  after  that.  Then 
the  chorus  romped  in.  Some  sort  of  a  climax  was 
attained,  and  the  curtain  fell  on  the  end  of  an  act. 

Gerald  and  Mrs.  Ruthven  began  to  talk.  Miss 
Norfolk  chattered  to  Hartford,  and  he  listened  more 
or  less.  People  moved  about  and  exchanged  greet- 
ings and  remarks  with  their  acquaintance.  A  man 
in  the  stalls  talked  to  a  girl  in  one  of  the  boxes  on 
the  lower  tier.  A  woman  nodded  and  smiled  to  an- 
other across  the  house.  There  was  a  steady  hum  of 
talk.  A  girl's  laugh  sounded  softly.  A  word  or  two 
of  conversation  might  now  and  then  be  heard,  de- 
tached as  it  were  from  the  general  buzz.  There  was 
that  appearance  of  the  meeting  and  the  mutual 
recognition  of  members  of  a  set  that  denotes  the 
successful  theatre.  Miss  Norfolk,  bowing  now  and 
then  to  friends,  was  happy  in  the  knowledge  that 
she  was  generally  to  be  seen  somewhere. 

Hartford  looked  across  her  to  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  surprised  Hartford's  eyes  on  her 
own.  It  was  then  that  an  idea  came  to  her,  and 


70  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

she  decided  that  it  was  time  for  Ventnor  to  change 
places  with  him. 

"  Go  and  talk  to  Miss  Norfolk,"  she  whispered 
to  Gerald,  "  I  dare  say  she  will  teach  you  a  good 
deal  that  you  don't  know."  She  leant  over  towards 
Hartford.  "  Mr.  Hartford,  come  and  sit  by  me.  I 
have  scarcely  seen  anything  of  you  all  this  even- 
ing." 

Hartford  rose  with  an  alacrity  that  was  scarcely 
flattering  to  the  girl  of  the  end  of  the  century. 

"  You  have  n't  been  particularly  kind  to  me  to- 
night," he  said,  as  he  took  the  place  Ventnor  had 
vacated. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  looked  puzzled  and  innocent. 

"  I  gave  you  the  only  girl,"  she  said.  "  I  thought 
of  course  you  would  rather  talk  to  her  than  to  an 
old  married  woman  like  myself." 

"That's  nonsense,"  said  Hartford,  hotly,  "you 
know  that." 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  cross  and  horrible  ?  "  said 
Mrs.  Ruthven,  "because  if  so  I  shan't  like  you." 

"  You  don't  like  me." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  You  interest  me  —  very  much,  when 
you  are  n't  disagreeable." 

Hartford  did  not  relax.  He  looked  gloomily  at 
the  musicians  assembling. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  71 

"Mr.  Hartford." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Ruthven." 

"  Look  here.  No,  turn  round.  Look  me  in  the 
face.  Like  that.  Now,  why  are  you  angry  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  angry." 

"Yes,  you  are.  Well,  I  am  going  to  be  very 
humble.  If  I  have  offended  you  I  —  I  am  sorry.  I 
don't  like  to  see  you  looking  unhappy.  Yes,  it 
does  matter,  of  course  it  matters.  I  am  ready  to 
make  amends  if  you  will  tell  me  how.  There,  you 
look  much  nicer  when  you  smile." 

The  musicians  were  in  their  places.  There  was 
a  confused  noise  of  tuning.  A  'cello  complained 
deeply.  A  violin  gave  forth  a  sound  that  was  like 
the  fretful  yawning  of  a  dog.*  An  oboe  wailed. 
The  conductor  made  his  appearance  and  took  his 
seat. 

"London  is  ruining  you,"  she  said,  presently. 
"It  is  the  very  worst  place  for  you  in  the  world. 
Why  have  n't  you  a  profession  ?  " 

"  Because  I  have  enough  to  live  on  without." 

"  You  're  an  only  son  ?  " 

The  conductor  tapped  the  music-stand  with  his 
baton.  There  was  silence  amongst  the  wantoning 
instruments,  and  the  overture  to  the  second  act 
began. 


72  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

It  was  then  perhaps  that  Mrs.  Ruthven's  idea 
matured. 

"I  know  you,"  she  said,  gravely;  "oh,  I  have 
seen  heaps  of  men  like  you  in  India.  You  drift. 
You  make  a  profession  of  drifting.  Do  you  know 
that  you  are  very  foolish  ?  " 

"  I  know  that  I  'm  not  very  happy." 

The  violins  in  sweeping  waves  of  sound  helped 
perhaps  to  unsteady  a  head  that  was  not  at  the 
best  very  strong. 

Gerald  meanwhile  talked  lightly  to  Miss  Nor- 
folk. Presently  the  lights  were  lowered  and  the 
curtain  rose. 

What  matter  that  the  plot  had  gone  to  pieces, 
that  the  disguises  were  somewhat  bewildering, 
and  without  motive?  What  did  the  story  matter 
while  there  was  still  to  be  heard  the  voice  that 
had  sung  perversely  to  Fickleness,  and  to  be  seen 
the  feet  that  had  translated  music  to  motion? 
Things  happened  or  did  not  happen,  and  Gerald 
suffered  himself  to  be  beguiled.  Half  an  hour 
passed.  Then  suddenly,  with  one  of  those  releas- 
ings  of  the  chorus,  like  the  letting  loose  of  children 
from  school — which  in  turn  is  like  the  rush  of 
waters  from  the  gap  in  a  broken  dam  —  the  red- 
haired  girl  was  swept  on  to  the  stage  again  and 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  73 

he  felt  a  pull  at  his  heart.  Araby !  He  had  only  a 
vague  consciousness  of  the  darkening  stage,  of 
forms  grouping  themselves  upon  the  rocks,  of  the 
strange  effect  of  the  opaline  lights  that  presently 
relieved  the  gloom.  He  was  tracing  Araby  in 
imagination  to  her  concert.  It  must  nearly  be  over 
by  now.  Would  Olympe  succeed  at  once  in  get- 
ting a  cab? 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  He  did  not  like  the 
thought  of  Araby  waiting,  perhaps,  in  Piccadilly, 
during  the  delay  that  was  inevitable.  He  hesitated, 
and  looked  at  his  watch  again  undecidedly. 
Araby  in  Piccadilly.  He  could  not  bear  the  thought. 
Then  he  professed  to  see  a  friend  amongst  the 
audience,  and  with  the  whispered  assurance  of  his 
speedy  return,  he  quietly  left  his  stall. 

He  got  his  coat  and  hat  from  the  attendant,  and 
hurried  out  of  the  theatre.  He  was  lucky  enough 
to  get  a  cab  at  once,  and  at  the  promise  of  an 
augmented  fare  the  driver  urged  his  horse  to  a 
creditable  pace.  He  paid  the  man  at  St.  James's 
Hall,  and  retained  him.  As  he  entered  the  build- 
ing people  began  to  leave  it.  He  was  in  the  nick 
of  time. 

He  scanned  the  stream  of  faces  that  flowed  to- 
wards him.  It  swept  past  and  round  him,  like 


74          TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

water  washing  a  rock  in  its  course.  But  the  face 
he  sought  was  not  there.  When  he  heard  a  woman 
say  that  the  song  "where  it  come  in  about  our  aingel 
Biby  Lil "  had  fair  brought  the  tears  to  her  eyes, 
he  understood  that  it  was  not  amongst  these 
people  that  he  must  look  for  Araby.  He  said  "  Vox 
populi"  under  his  breath,  and  smiled  to  himself. 

But  at  the  moment  of  making  the  discovery,  a 
somewhat  large  form,  at  which  he  had  been  look- 
ing abstractedly  as  it  advanced  towards  him,  be- 
came suddenly  detached  as  it  were  from  the  others, 
and  familiar  to  him,  and  he  recognized  the  shrewd 
and  good-tempered  face  of  Mrs.  Ruthven's  maid. 
Araby  was  walking  beside  her,  and  as  her  eyes 
fell  upon  him  she  hurried  forward  with  a  little  ges- 
ture of  pleased  surprise. 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  when  she  reached  him,  "  where 
do  you  think  we  have  been  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  can  guess." 

"We  went  there  by  mistake,"  she  said,  laugh- 
ing ;  "  we  did  n't  know  there  were  two  halls  here, 
and  we  took  our  tickets  and  went  in,  and  there 
was  such  a  ridiculous  plantation-song  being  sung, 
and  Olympe  was  so  much  amused,  and  she  had 
been  dreading  the  classical  music  so  much,  — 
had  n't  you,  Olympe  ?  —  that  after  all  we  did  n't 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  75 

move.  It  was  all  very  funny,  but  oh,  my  beautiful 
concert!  Is  that  where  we  ought  to  have  gone,  up 
there?  I  suppose  those  are  the  people  beginning 
to  come  out  from  it?" 

He  was  looking  at  her,  and  listening  to  her  with 
some  amusement.  She  was  speaking  rapidly,  and 
in  a  tone  that  was  partly  aggrieved  and  partly 
playful. 

His  coat,  which  was  not  fastened,  flapped  open  as 
some  one  pushed  past  him,  and  Araby  noticed, 
though  almost  without  being  conscious  of  doing 
so,  some  violets  which  he  was  wearing. 

"  But  how  do  you  come  to  be  here?"  she  asked. 

"I  came  to  see  that  you  got  a  cab  without 
difficulty." 

"  Where  is  my  mother  ?  " 

"  At  the  theatre." 

"  Did  she  send  you  ?  " 

Gerald  shook  his  head. 

"  Does  she  know  you  have  come  here?" 

"  No." 

"  Oh,"  said  Araby,  with  dismay. 

"  I  have  a  hansom  waiting  outside,"  said  Gerald, 
smiling. 

"  Won't  the  play  be  over?  Shall  you  be  back  in 
time?  Oh,  I  wish  you  had  n't  come." 


76  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Olympe  stood  back  watching  and  in  silence. 
Ventnor  led  the  way  along  the  crowded  pavement 
to  where  his  cab  was  standing.  He  gave  Araby  his 
hand  and  helped  her  into  the  hansom.  The  maid 
followed.  Araby  leant  forward. 

"  Do  go  back  at  once,"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "  do 
go  straight  back  —  straight,  do  you  hear  ?  and  — 
and,  Mr.  Ventnor,  if  you  don't  mind  —  "  she  hes- 
itated. 

"Yes?" 

"  Don't  say  where  you  've  been." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  was  moving  away.  Some 
one  was  calling  to  him. 

"Sir." 

The  driver  drew  his  attention  to  Araby,  who 
beckoned  to  him.  She  put  out  her  hand. 

"It  was  good  of  you  to  come.  It  was  awfully 
good  of  you." 

A  minute  later  Ventnor  was  being  whirled  back 
along  the  Strand. 

He  was  in  his  place  in  time  to  hear  the  final 
chorus  and  see  the  curtain  fall. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  DAILY  penance  to  Araby  was  the  morning  walk 
with  her  mother.  One  of  the  rules  to  strict  con- 
formance  to  which  Mrs.  Ruthven  owed  some- 
thing of  her  health  and  her  youth,  was  that  of  a 
regular  and  methodical  regard  of  exercise.  Araby 
herself  cared  as  much  for  walking  as  most  girls 
who  have  been  brought  up  in  the  country  and  the 
open  air.  She  had  been  accustomed  in  the  Eccram 
days  to  long  rambles  through  the  lanes  or  in  the 
woods — alone  as  often  as  not,  or  sometimes  with 
such  companions  as  chance  or  the  neighbourhood 
afforded  her. 

Oh,  for  such  a  walk  now!  —  to  start  running 
down  the  Eccram  drive,  and  to  steady  to  a  more 
dignified  pace  as  she  neared  the  lodge,  to  turn  out 
then  on  to  the  broad  highway,  and  take  an  east- 
ward or  a  westward  direction  —  what  matter  which 
when  each  was  beautiful  ?  —  to  crack  with  her  stick 
the  ice  on  the  little  frozen  pools  at  the  wayside,  and 
then  to  stride  briskly  along  the  iron  roads  that  were 
overhung  by  gaunt  and  frost-rimed  elms,  and  to 
breathe  in  the  still  sharp  air,  and  to  meet  no  one ! 


78  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

But  to  walk  in  London,  and  with  her  mother, 
that  was  different.  The  parks  were  after  all  a  poor 
imitation  of  the  country ;  and  Mrs.  Ruthven  made 
this  daily  hour  and  a  half  of  exercise  the  occasion 
of  lectures  that  were  curiously  foreign  to  the  char- 
acter as  Araby  read  it  of  the  giver  of  them.  And 
when  Mrs.  Ruthven  was  not  admonishing,  she  was 
teasing  her  purely  and  simply  and  with  twinkling 
eyes.  Araby  scarcely  knew  which  she  dreaded  most 
—  the  lectures,  in  the  sincerity  of  which,  with  her 
mother's  example  before  her,  she  could  not  believe, 
or  the  baiting  which,  if  it  was  premeditated  and 
its  cruelty  realized,  must  sooner  or  later  end  in  her 
hatred  of  her  tormentor. 

It  was  a  relief  to  her  that  she  was  at  least  al- 
lowed to  begin  the  day  in  peace.  Mrs.  Ruthven, 
since  she  had  entered  on  her  occupation  of  the 
house  in  Primate  Street,  breakfasted  in  her  room, 
and  till  nearly  eleven  Araby  had  her  time  to  her- 
self. In  these  frosty  winter  mornings,  with  a  mag- 
nificent disregard  of  her  complexion,  she  drew  her 
chair  round  to  that  side  of  the  table  that  was  nearest 
to  the  fire,  and,  with  the  newspaper  propped  up 
against  the  urn,  she  read  comfortably  as  she  ate 
abstractedly,  and  allowed  first  one  half  of  her  face 
and  then  the  other  to  be  burned  by  the  dancing 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  79 

blaze.  The  knowledge  that  her  mother  would  have 
interfered  with  this  method  of  enjoying  her  lonely 
breakfast  detracted  nothing  from  the  pleasure  of 
its  freedom.  She  was  learning  at  this  period  of  her 
life  to  look  only  to  herself  for  sympathetic  compan- 
ionship. She  was  not  of  a  sort  to  find  solace  in 
confiding  her  thoughts  or  her  impressions  to  a 
diary,  and  since  leaving  Eccram  she  had  no  inti- 
mate acquaintance  at  hand  to  whom  she  could  go 
for  counsel.  She  was  loyal  to  the  mother  at  whose 
contrivance  she  was  now  so  little  happy,  and  in 
her  letters  to  the  old  aunts  she  had  never  written  a 
word  that  would  serve  to  enlighten  them  as  to  the 
facts  of  the  case.  From  Mrs.  Ruthven  herself  they 
gathered  nothing  except  that  which  she  wished 
them  to  know  ;  and  if  she  spoke  of  them  habitually 
as  "  those  two  old  things  at  Eccram,"  or  "  those 
dreadful  old  aunts  of  your  father,  Araby,"  she  was 
careful  to  write  to  them  the  very  admirable  senti- 
ments which  she  knew  so  well  how  to  word. 

"Their  goggle  eyes  used  to  be  big  enough 
when  I  knew  them,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  I 
am  rather  good  at  throwing  dust." 

On  the  morning  succeeding  Mrs.  Ruthven's  im- 
promptu party  Araby  descended  as  usual  to  the  snug 
brown  dining-room.  There  had  been  more  frost  in 


80  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

the  night,  and  the  fire  burned  brightly,  and  threw 
a  glow  of  heat  from  the  red-tiled  hearth.  Araby 
stood  before  it,  and  held  out  her  hands  to  the 
blaze.  The  butler  was  moving  round  the  table. 
The  tray  for  Mrs.  Ruthven's  breakfast  stood  on 
the  sideboard,  and  Olympe  came  in  presently,  and 
after  looking  about,  and  asking  him  for  such 
things  as  she  required  for  her  mistress,  she  took  it 
in  her  plump  hands  and  disappeared. 

The  man  removed  a  cover  and  withdrew.  Araby 
did  not  stir  at  once.  She  watched  the  flames,  and 
the  curling  smoke,  and  a  tile  on  to  which  a  burn- 
ing coal  had  fallen,  and  which  reflected  its  heart  of 
fire ;  then  some  flaky  white  dust  which  trembled 
on  a  bar  of  the  grate  ;  after  that  it  was  the  blue  of 
a  little  flame  that  caught  her  attention,  and  that 
reminded  her  of  the  blue  of  some  one's  eyes,  and 
then  she  smiled,  and  then  she  sighed. 

She  was  still  standing  before  the  fire  when 
Olympe  returned  for  the  salt,  which  had  been  for- 
gotten. Araby  turned  absently  and  looked  at  her. 

Olympe  laid  her  hand  upon  her  own  panting 
bosom  and  said,  — 

"All  those  stairs.  I  mount  again.  So  stupid. 
Whatta  bore ! "  and  whisked  herself  and  a  salt- 
cellar out  of  the  room. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  81 

Araby 's  thoughts  followed  her  up  the  white 
stairs,  and  culminated  at  the  side  of  the  dainty 
bed,  in  a  recollection  of  the  inevitable  walk  and  its 
attendant  evils.  Then  quite  suddenly,  and  with  a 
surprise  that  led  to  self-questioning,  Araby  real- 
ized that  she  had  within  herself  a  knowledge  that 
would  render,  for  that  day  at  least,  her  mother's 
shafts  powerless  to  wound  her.  She  sat  down  to 
her  breakfast,  but  she  could  not  eat.  She  was 
thinking  of  every  word  that  Gerald  Ventnor  had 
ever  said  to  her.  They  did  not  amount  to  very 
many,  even  when  they  were  all  gathered  together. 
They  would  have  covered  little  paper,  and  most 
of  them  were  commonplace  enough,  but  —  Araby 
thought  of  them  all.  She  remembered,  too,  every 
time  that  she  had  seen  him.  But  it  seemed  to  her 
that  it  was  yesterday  that  for  the  first  time  she  had 
seen  him  as  he  really  was.  She  rose  and  looked  at 
her  reflection  in  the  little  square  of  bevelled  glass 
that  was  let  into  the  woodwork  over  the  mantel- 
piece. She  stood  in  front  of  it  for  some  moments, 
noting  many  things,  and  wondering,  and  then  she 
returned  to  the  table.  Her  lips  were  smiling.  Her 
eyes  were  grave  as  they  fell  upon  the  flowers  that 
Miss  Norfolk  had  mechanically  admired  at  dinner, 
for  the  sight  of  them  brought  back  a  recollection 


82  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

of  a  three-quarter  view  of  Gerald's  head,  as  he  had 
sat  with  his  face  turned  almost  the  whole  time  to 
Mrs.  Ruthven.  Then  Araby  was  unhappy  for  a 
space,  and  then  she  was  wildly  happy.  Oh,  the 
beautiful  night !  she  thought  of  the  drive  home  with 
Olympe  along  Piccadilly  after  that  exquisite  mo- 
ment when  the  calling  back  of  Gerald  to  thank 
him  had  seemed  to  bring  him  so  near  to  her.  She 
had  carried  home  with  her  the  recollection  of  his 
smile.  The  Green  Park  was  a  white  park  that 
night,  the  trees  were  saved  from  gauntness  by  a 
rich  covering  of  fine  snow,  and  snow  lay  in  a 
broad  expanse  on  the  grass,  so  that  even  the 
further  distances  were  not  quite  dark.  Something 
gleamed  on  the  path  that  skirts  the  park  railings. 
A  boy  was  carrying  a  pair  of  skates,  and  the 
blades  caught  the  lights  of  a  passing  carriage. 
Then  Araby  wished  to  skate.  Somewhere,  she 
thought,  there  must  be  sheets  of  ice,  where  the 
stars  of  the  winter  night  were  deeply  reflected,  and 
where  at  the  edges  overhung  by  trees  mysterious 
shadows  would  be  thrown.  Out  in  the  open  the 
moon  would  see  her  face,  perhaps  blurred  in  the 
icy  mirror.  Oh,  on  such  a  frozen  lake  to  skate 
away  to  the  end  of  time,  alone  with  one's  thoughts 
—  or  with  one  other ! 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  83 

So  Araby  made  a  meagre  breakfast.  Her  happi- 
ness, which  had  its  base  on  very  slender  founda- 
tions, robbed  her  of  all  wish  to  eat.  She  rose  from 
the  table  half  a  dozen  times,  to  go  to  the  window, 
to  look  into  the  fire,  to — but  her  actions  did  not 
seem  to  have  any  definite  motives.  When  she 
saw  herself  in  the  glass  she  smiled. 

All  this  time  Araby  sought  no  name  for  the  new 
element  that  had  come  into  her  life.  It  was  enough 
for  her  that  —  for  whatever  reason  —  she  was  ex- 
periencing a  joy  which  had  never  been  hers  before. 
She  did  not  look  on  into  the  future  with  any  wonder. 
She  was  not  of  a  type  that  maps  out  plans  or  hopes 
in  advance.  All  that  she  realized  was,  that  with 
Gerald  for  her  friend  the  difficulties  of  her  life 
would  dwindle. 

She  had  been  brought  up  upon  old-fashioned 
principles,  upon  principles  indeed  that  now,  for- 
tunately or  the  reverse,  according  to  your  view  of 
the  old  order  in  contrast  with  the  new,  are  almost 
obsolete.  She  had  read  little  of  love,  and  she  had 
heard  still  less.  Novels  in  the  Eccram  days  had 
been  accounted  dangerous,  until  they  had  been 
carefully  considered  by  that  one  of  the  aunts  under 
whose  supervision  her  reading  had  been  done,  and 
poor  Araby  was  unwittingly  the  symbol  of  the  ter- 


84  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

rible  young  person  before  whom  the  novel-writer  is 
now  only  by  slow  degrees  ceasing  to  bow  down.  The 
Miss  Woottons  had  allowed  her  a  free  access  only 
to  that  form  of  literature  which  proclaims  its  purity 
in  its  very  binding.  "  Embossed  Cloth,  Gilt,"  is,  I  be- 
lieve, the  technical  term  for  the  abomination  which 
covers  the  class  of  book  held  harmless.  It  was  thus 
an  invertebrate  sort  of  fiction  which  had  been  per- 
mitted to  adorn  her  bookshelves  in  those  days. 
The  classics,  if  she  had  read  them  at  all,  came 
before  her  in  a  mutilated  form.  The  result  of  such 
censorship  was  —  Araby.  She  had,  then,  to  make 
all  discoveries  for  herself,  and  that  which  to  the 
average  modern  girl  would  have  been  familiar  at 
the  second  hand  of  fiction,  was  to  her  an  untrav- 
elled  country.  She  was  vaguely  conscious  of  the 
handicap  to  which  her  mind  had  been  subjected  by 
the  well-meaning  rigour  of  the  aunts. 

The  morning  was  passing  quickly.  Araby,  having 
taken  no  heed  of  time,  was  sitting  at  the  piano  in 
the  drawing-room,  translating,  though  she  was 
scarcely  aware  of  it,  something  of  her  feelings  to 
the  music  that  she  was  playing,  when  her  wander- 
ing eyes  chanced  to  fall  upon  the  clock.  Almost 
simultaneously  three  things  occurred  —  she  started 
to  her  feet  noting  the  hour,  Olympe  came  to  the 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  85 

room  bearing  a  message  from  Mrs.  Ruthven  an- 
nouncing that  she  was  ready  for  her  walk,  and  the 
front-door  bell  was  rung.  Araby  hurried  upstairs, 
and  presently  returned  booted,  hatted,  coated,  and 
drawing  on  her  gloves.  She  had  heard  her  mother 
going  down  from  her  room,  and  now  she  heard 
her  voice  in  the  drawing-room,  and  the  sound  also 
of  another  voice.  Then  Araby  waited  for  a  few 
moments  before  going  in,  till  the  colour  in  her  face 
should  subside  somewhat.  Her  heart  was  beating 
loudly.  When  she  could  delay  no  longer  she 
opened  the  door. 

She  saw  Gerald  then  as  she  had  never  seen  him 
before.  He  was  standing  by  the  fire  in  a  rough 
brown  suit,  and  stockings  knitted  of  a  coarse  wool. 
He  looked  altogether  a  bigger,  broader  man  than 
she  had  supposed  him.  Hitherto  she  had  known  him 
only  as  a  man  of  London  —  one  of  that  great  class 
that  lounges  through  a  town  life  smartly.  Now  his 
masculinity  seemed  more  insistent ;  a  subtle  air  of 
the  country  hung  about  him,  and  to  Araby,  who 
had  lived  her  life  in  the  woods  and  the  fields,  its  sug- 
gestion appealed  strongly.  Her  shyness  vanished 
in  a  moment.  In  truth,  she  scarcely  saw  her  mother 
just  then.  She  thought  of  the  sound  of  a  gun,  she 
thought  inconsequently  of  dogs  and  horses,  of  rods 


86  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

and  fishing-tackle,  and  of  whatever  else  connects 
itself  with  an  out-of-door  life. 

Gerald  shook  hands  with  her,  and  repeated  the 
object  of  his  visit.  His  sister  was  making  up  a  party 
to  skate  at  Wimbledon,  and  he  had  come  round  to 
see  whether  Mrs.  Ruthven  and  Araby  would  not  be 
persuaded  to  join  it. 

Araby's  face  expressed  the  delight  the  proposal 
afforded  her. 

"Can  you  skate?"  asked  her  mother.  "You 
must  n't  come  if  it  is  to  learn.  A  beginner  wants  a 
lot  of  help,  and  so  on." 

"  But  I  am  not  a  beginner,"  said  Araby  firmly, 
and  conscious  of  her  powers. 

Ten  minutes  later  Mrs.  Ruthven  and  her  daugh- 
ter were  being  fitted  with  skates,  and  half  an  hour 
saw  them  on  their  way  to  Wimbledon.  In  the  train, 
Gerald,  in  his  lightest  mood,  kept  Araby  included 
in  the  conversation.  Mrs.  Ruthven  frowned  a  little 
sometimes,  but  Araby's  spirits  were  at  a  height  at 
which  they  could  be  little  affected  by  these  signs 
of  a  gathering  storm. 

The  clear  winter  night  had  been  followed  by  as 
clear  a  day.  The  air  was  sharp  and  still ;  a  pale 
sunlight  gilded  but  scarcely  warmed  the  crisp 
morning.  Gerald  noted  Araby's  glowing  cheeks. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  87 

Her  eyes  were  bright  in  anticipation  of  the  exer- 
cise before  her. 

Miss  Ventnor' s  party  had  gone  down  by  an  ear- 
lier train.  Miss  Ventnor  herself  waited  on  the  edge 
of  the  ice  for  her  brother  and  his  friends.  She  had 
met  Araby  before,  we  remember,  on  the  occasion 
of  Araby's  series  of  visits  with  Mrs.  Sandon.  She 
greeted  Mrs.  Ruthven  warmly,  and  Mrs.  Ruthven 
thought  she  annexed  her.  What  Mrs.  Ruthven  had 
said  of  herself  was  true ;  girls  were  always  attracted 
to  her ;  and  Miss  Ventnor  pleased  Gerald  by  saying 
that  she  hoped  she  might  be  allowed  to  call  in 
Primate  Street. 

Araby 's  eyes  traversed  the  great  sheet  of  ice. 
A  girl  swung  by,  tracing  broad  curves. 

"  Oh,"  said  Araby  to  herself,  "  he  shall  see  what 
I  can  do.  Oh,  I  am  glad  I  can  skate." 

A  dozen  men  besieged  the  new  arrivals.  "  'Ere 
you  are,  lady."  "  Put  your  skates  on,  Miss?"  "Take 
a  seat,  sir." 

Araby  gave  herself  into  the  hands  of  the  most  per- 
suasive. He  discoursed  volubly  of  frosts  he  remem- 
bered, of  figure-cutting  as  it  should  be  done,  of  the 
merits  comparatively  of  wooden  and  acme  skates. 

"A  very  pretty  pair  yours  are,  miss,  too  —  very 
fancy  they  are.  Thank  you,  miss." 


88  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Araby  was  amused,  and  made  appropriate  an- 
swers, but  he  was  not  as  deft  with  his  fingers  as 
he  was  quick  with  his  tongue,  and  she  was  chafing 
to  be  on  the  ice.  She  had  the  trial  to  her  patience 
of  seeing  the  others  there  before  her. 

"  Oh,  could  you  be  a  little  bit  quicker  ?"  she  said 
at  last. 

The  man  seemed  hurt.  It  was  this  way,  he  ex- 
plained ;  she  might  have  gone  to  one  of  the  others 
who  would  have  fastened  her  skates  more  quickly 
perhaps,  and  in  ten  minutes  they  would  have  come 
off,  and  then  —  well,  there  you  are.  He  was  "  thur- 
rer,"  he  was.  If  you  do  a  thing  at  all  you  had  better 
do  it  well  or  else  leave  it  alone.  A  skate  (he  held  one 
of  Araby 's  up  for  demonstration)  was  n't  like  the 
harness  of  a  fire-engine  horse,  you  could  n't  drop 
it  on  warm. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  meanwhile  took  a  few  steps  tenta- 
tively, found  that  her  sojourn  in  India  had  not 
robbed  her  of  her  power  of  skating,  and  then  struck 
out  freely  and  with  the  grace  that  characterized  all 
her  movements.  Gerald  gave  her  his  hand.  Araby 
looked  on.  Were  they  going  to  skate  away  to- 
gether? Gerald  glanced  along  the  row  of  chairs 
and  his  eyes  fell  on  Araby.  Perhaps  her  face  ex- 
pressed her  martyrdom.  He  said  something  to 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  89 

Mrs.  Ruthven  and  skated  up  to  the  bank.  The 
man  was  likening  —  or  unlikening  in  his  case,  for 
he  used  a  negative  form  of  simile  —  the  skate  to 
many  other  things.  Gerald  grasped  the  situation, 
paid  the  man,  dismissed  him  as  incompetent,  and 
adjusted  Araby 's  skates  himself.  The  man  con- 
tinued his  discourse  the  while. 

A  few  minutes  more  and  Araby  was  on  the  ice. 
Gerald  watched  her  as  she  shot  away.  She  was  as 
some  mythical  being  with  winged  feet.  Her  hips 
showed  a  rounded  line  as  she  swept  on  in  half-circles, 
while  the  balance  of  her  body  was  precise  as  that 
of  the  dancing-girls  of  the  previous  night.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  looked  at  her  daughter  in  surprise. 

"Who  taught  her  to  skate?"  she  said  to  herself. 

The  sharp  ring  of  the  blades  on  the  ice  filled  the 
air,  and  smote  the  ears  of  such  as  hurried  from  the 
.  station,  while  as  yet  the  skaters  were  not  in  sight. 
The  sound  of  the  brooms  was  soft,  and  had  a  per- 
manent place  in  the  noises  of  the  day,  and  a  third 
sound  was  the  musical  whirr  of  the  curling. 

Araby  was  intoxicated  with  the  delights  of  the 
day,  and  the  blood  ran  fast  in  her  veins,  and  gave 
a  tingling  colour  to  her  face  as  she  moved.  She 
wore  a  rough  black  serge  that  allowed  her  limbs 
free  play  and  that  swung  back  with  the  speed  of 


90          TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

her  going.  Her  slight  figure  was  outlined  against 
the  ice  or  the  white  of  the  banks. 

"  By  Jove,  she  can  skate  ! "  said  Gerald,  below 
his  breath. 

Miss  Ventnor  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Ruthven,  and, 
under  the  impression  that  she  was  making  herself 
agreeable,  she  was  loud  in  her  praises  of  Araby. 
In  answer  to  them  Mrs.  Ruthven  said  sweetly,  — 

"  It  is  so  good  of  you  to  say  so." 

"  You  must  be  awfully  proud  of  her,"  said  Miss 
Ventnor. 

Gerald  had  joined  Araby,  and  the  two  were 
skating  together. 

"  And  won't  you  present  her  and  bring  her  out 
this  season  ?  "  persisted  Miss  Ventnor. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  changed  the  subject — carefully, 
however,  for  she  did  not  wish  Miss  Ventnor  to 
suppose  that  she  was  bored.  Her  humour  was 
somewhat  uncertain  at  this  moment. 

"  Oh,"  said  Araby  to  Gerald,  "  how  good  of  you 
to  devise  this  pleasure  for  us.  There  is  nothing 
better  that  you  could  have  thought  of.  When  I 
skate  I  want  to  skate  for  ever.  Do  you  know  Long- 
fellow's *  Skeleton  in  Armour'  ?  I  read  it  so  often 
and  it  enchants  me,  and  half  the  enchantment  of  it 
lies  in  the  lines  that — " 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  91 

Gerald  interrupted  her  to  quote,  — 

"  And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half- frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 
Trembled  to  walk  on." 

"  I  am  glad  you  know,"  said  Araby,  radiantly, 
"  I  wanted  you  to  know.  Can't  you  see  him,  the 
Viking  I  mean,  cutting  along  through  the  frozen 
air  ?  Oh,  he  went  fast  —  faster  than  we  could  go, 
and  he  wore  great  curled  skates,  I  think,  with  an 
edge  keen  to  grip  the  ice.  And  that  ice  !  It  was  n't 
half-frozen  everywhere,  you  know.  That  was  only 
in  places.  There  were  miles  of  it,  I  think,  square 
miles  I  mean,  or  perhaps  it  was  measureless,  and 
he  could  skate  on  and  on,  coming  no  nearer  to  the 
end  of  it.  And  it  was  clear  and  smooth  as  crystal, 
so  that  you  could  see  down  deeply  into  it,  and 
there  were  fish  frozen  into  it  like  —  " 

"  Prawns  in  aspic,"  suggested  Gerald. 

"Yes,  like  prawns  in  aspic,"  said  Araby,  smil- 
ing, — "  though  you  have  brought  my  Viking 
over  many  centuries,  —  and  behind  him  he  left  the 
only  marks  the  ice  bore,  and  they  were  bold  free 
lines  or  great  sweeping  curves  when  he  went  on 
the  outside  edge.  Let  us  go  on  the  outside  edge 
now.  Oh,  don't  you  like,  —  take  care,  there  's  a 


92  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

big  crack,  —  don't  you  like  skating  better  than 
anything  else  in  the  world  ?  " 

Gerald  laughed. 

"Not  better  than  anything  else  in  the  world,"  he 
said. 

They  swept  round  together  to  the  right  and  to 
the  left  with  the  regularity  of  a  pendulum. 

"  What  better  ?  "  asked  Araby. 

"  I  don't  know  —  hunting.  Listening  to  you." 

"That  is  the  sort  of  thing  you  say  to  —  other 
people."  She  hesitated  and  coloured.  She  had 
been  going  to  instance  her  mother. 

They  skated  on  in  silence  then  for  a  few  min- 
utes. A  shadow  was  on  Araby's  face.  Presently 
her  brow  cleared.  Small  things  amused  her  on 
this  happy  day.  A  man's  fall  moved  her  to  laugh- 
ter, and  the  shambling  of  a  beginner  —  a  lady  with 
weak  ankles  who  shuffled  and  slid,  and  walked  by 
turns  upon  the  wooden  part  of  her  skates,  with 
an  uncertainty  of  balance  that  resulted  at  times  in 
her  feet  proceeding  in  advance  of  her  body.  The 
frenzied  war-dance  which  preceded  her  inevitable 
tumble  seemed  irresistibly  funny. 

Gerald  looked  at  Araby  as  she  laughed — how 
she  laughed,  how  lightly  and  musically,  and  with 
what  infection! — and  he  laughed  too.  They  laughed 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  93 

together,  looking  each  at  the  other  with  twinkling 
eyes. 

Araby  knew  then  that  laughter,  like  tears,  binds 
hearts  together.  She  felt  that  Gerald  and  she  knew 
one  another  better  than  heretofore. 

They  separated  presently,  Miss  Ventnor  joining 
Araby,  and  Gerald  Mrs.  Ruthven.  Miss  Ventnor 
spoke  of  Mrs.  Sandon,  and  Araby  was  warm  in  her 
praise. 

"  It  was  in  Earl  Street  that  you  met  my  brother, 
was  n't  it  ?  "  said  Miss  Ventnor. 

"  We  were  staying  there  before  mother  took  a 
house,"  said  Araby. 

By  lunch-time  the  two  girls  were  fast  friends. 
Miss  Ventnor  was  an  enthusiast,  and  took  sudden 
fancies  to  people.  The  latest  friend  was  always  the 
only  friend  in  the  world.  Miss  Norfolk  had  at  one 
time  been  one  of  these  only  friends.  Maud  Athol, 
Gertrude  Woodford,  and  a  score  of  others  shared 
this  distinction. 

"  And  I  always  like  Gerald's  friends,"  said  Miss 
Ventnor,  making  a  sudden  turn  on  her  skates  which 
resulted  in  a  fall.  "  Oh,  my  poor  elbow,  it  will  be 
blue  for  the  Athols'  dance  to-morrow."  She  said 
this  from  a  sitting  posture  on  the  ice,  and  continued 
as  she  regained  her  feet,  —  "  And  you  are  Gerald's 


94  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

friend,  are  n't  you  ?  you  or  Mrs.  Ruthven,  which  is 
it  ?  And  so  I  am  certain  to  like  you.  I  hope,  by  the 
way,"  she  added,  as  she  shook  the  white  from  her 
skirts,  and  as  an  afterthought,  "  that  you  will  like 
me." 

"  That  will  be  easy,"  said  Araby,  frankly. 

A  footman,  treading  on  the  ice  gingerly,  —  and 
like  Agag  in  that  he  went  delicately,  —  approached 
Miss  Ventnor  to  inform  her  that  lunch  was  ready, 
and  that  the  rest  of  her  party  had  assembled. 

Miss  Ventnor  was  greeted  with  a  chorus  of 
bantering  reproach.  One  said  one  thing  and  one 
another,  but  the  more  part  knew  very  well  why 
they  were  come  together.  The  meal  passed  mer- 
rily. The  champagne  sparkled  in  tumblers  and  the 
pale  sunlight.  Mrs.  Ruthven  enlarged  her  acquaint- 
ance that  day  by  about  a  dozen  people.  Lord 
George  Athol  devoted  himself  to  her,  and  whis- 
pered later  to  his  wife,  with  the  result  that  Lady 
George  asked  to  be  allowed  to  call,  and  begged 
Mrs.  Ruthven  to  waive  ceremony  and  bring  her 
daughter  to  a  small  dance  in  Barn  Street  on  the 
following  night. 

"  But  Araby  is  n't  out,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

"  Oh,  but  such  a  small  dance,"  said  Lady  George. 

"You  must,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Ventnor;  "and 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  95 

won't  you  dine  with  us  first?  I  know  mamma 
would  be  delighted." 

She  knew  nothing  of  the  sort.  Gerald  added  his 
entreaties  to  hers,  but  Mrs.  Ruthven  gave  no  defi- 
nite answer. 

The  ice  became  more  crowded.  Every  train  that 
came  in  sent  a  stream  pouring  down  to  the  bank. 
The  figure-skaters  had  some  difficulty  in  keeping 
their  chosen  spaces  free,  and  regarded  with  envy 
the  clear  stretch  of  the  best  ice  which  the  club  re- 
served for  the  use  of  its  members.  The  scene  was 
painted  in  bright  colours  against  a  white  back- 
ground. Here  a  bit  of  scarlet  on  a  girl's  coat  made 
a  spot  that  glowed  like  an  ember.  The  frosty  winter 
had  brought  out  warm  browns  and  reds,  and  they 
moved  hither  and  thither  like  autumn  leaves  blown 
by  the  wind.  Later,  when  the  sun  set  gorgeously, 
the  very  snow  grew  pink,  and  the  ice  had  a  sheen 
as  of  gold  blended  with  crimson.  A  red  mist  hung 
in  the  direction  of  London. 

Araby  thought  of  the  moon  that  had  turned 
London  of  the  night  before  to  a  silver  city,  and 
that  soon  would  rise.  She  wished  that  she  could 
stay  on  far  into  the  night,  till  every  other  skater 
—  every  other  save  one  —  should  have  gone  home. 
Then,  she  thought,  on  the  lonely  stretch  of  ice 


96  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

they  two  would  swing,  she  and  that  other,  on 
magic  blades  that  traced  fantastic  patterns  — 
sometimes  apart,  sometimes  joining  hands.  There 
should  be  fairy  music  to  such  dancing  as  thatl 
What  shadows  would  their  swaying  bodies  cast 
upon  ice!  —  shadows  that  would  be  clean-cut  in  so 
bright  a  moonlight.  How  they  would  turn,  and 
circle,  and  blend !  .  .  . 

Gerald  skated  up  to  her.  His  face  had  a  ruddi- 
ness that  came  in  part  from  the  exercise,  in  part 
from  the  russet  sky. 

"  We  are  going  presently,"  he  said. 

"  So  soon  ?  "  said  Araby. 

Gerald  smiled. 

"  Not  tired  yet  ?  "  he  said. 

"  No,"  said  Araby.  "  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never 
be  tired  again." 

She  looked  across  to  the  blazing  west  as  she 
spoke.  Her  eyes  and  her  cheeks  were  glowing. 
Her  hair  caught  the  light,  and  flamed  like  the 
sunset.  She  looked  an  incarnation  of  fire.  The 
thought  struck  Gerald,  and  he  looked  at  her  in 
wonder. 

"  I  believe,"  he  said,  "  if  you  took  off  your  hat 
and  let  down  your  hair,  that  it  would  scorch  me. 
It  would  be  like  flames  curling  round  your  face. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN  97 

Your  eyes  are  burning  too  like  coals.  Oh,  you  're 
splendid.  I  wish  I  could  paint.  I  wish  I  could 
write  poetry.  I  would  paint  you,  I  would  write  you, 
you  fire  girl ! " 

Araby  coloured  deeply.  Gerald  remembered 
himself. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  gently.  "  I 
scarcely  know  how  I  came  to  speak  like  that  to 
you.  I  've  made  you  angry." 

"I'm  not  angry,"  she  answered  low.  "I  am 
only—" 

"  Only  what  ?  "  in  a  voice  as  low. 

"Glad,"  said  Araby.  She  turned  her  head  a 
little.  He  saw  the  oval  of  her  cheek,  and  the 
colour  that  was  slowly  leaving  it.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes  when  next  he  saw  them. 

He  was  tempted  to  follow  up  his  advantage. 
Instead,  however,  he  brought  matters  back  to  the 
safety  of  the  commonplace  by  asking  her  if  she 
would  not  like  some  tea  before  going.  He  read 
her  as  a  book,  and  her  absolute  inexperience  was 
revealed  to  him. 

The  cup  steamed  in  the  winter  twilight.  He 
watched  her  as  she  emptied  it.  Even  while  she 
drank  she  could  not  resist  moving  on  her  skates. 

The  scattered  party  was  long  in  assembling. 


98  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Miss  Ventnor  had  her  skates  taken  off,  and  was 
sliding  tentatively  at  the  edge  of  the  ice.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  was  talking  to  Lady  George,  and  she 
looked  in  the  direction  of  Gerald  and  Araby.  She 
saw  them  skate  off  once  more  together. 

"  Faster,"  said  Araby,  "  faster.  This  is  the  end 
of  it.  Faster !  The  outside  edge.  .  .  . " 

They  swung  along. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MRS.  RUTH  YEN  went  home  that  night  in  "an  un- 
certain mood.  The  day  had  been  successful,  but 
it  had  left  her  discontented.  Her  state  of  mind 
shewed  itself  in  a  hundred  odd  ways.  She  was 
silent  and  she  talked  by  turns.  She  moved  about 
her  rooms  restlessly,  and  she  contemplated  her 
daughter  as  she  might  have  studied  a  picture  or 
a  statue,  or  anything  else  that  is  inanimate.  Once 
she  went  over  to  her,  and  holding  her  by  the 
shoulders,  she  looked  deeply  into  her  eyes.  She 
kissed  her  forehead  suddenly,  and  then  let  her  go 
with  a  kind  of  push. 

Araby  was  startled  and  shrank  back.  The  inci- 
dent had  the  element  of  the  unfamiliar,  and  from 
the  unfamiliar  it  was  in  Araby' s  nature  to  retreat. 
She  regarded  her  mother  with  a  mingling  of  dread 
and  fascination. 

"  Who  taught  you  to  skate  ?"  Mrs.  Ruthven  said. 
"  Who  taught  you  to  skate  so  well  ?  " 

"  I  have  skated  all  my  life,"  said  Araby.  "  When- 
ever there  was  frost  at  Eccram  we  used  to  skate. 
The  park  pond  is  very  shallow,  and  it  bears  before 


ioo         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

anything  else  —  I  mean  a  very  short  frost  used  to 
get  us  a  day's  skating  " 

" Who  is  ' us'?" 

"  The  vicarage  boy  and  girl  and  myself." 

"How  old  is  the  boy?" 

"  Nineteen  or  twenty  now,  I  suppose." 

"Describe  him." 

"  How  can  I  ?  Dark,  tall,  rather  lanky  —  what 
use  to  tell  you  that?  The  words  don't  express  him. 
He  is  at  Woolwich  now  —  the  shop,  I  think  they 
call  it.  He  taught  me  to  skate.  I  wish  I  could  do 
all  that  he  can  do." 

"  What  was  his  name  ?  " 

"Pine  — Herbert  Pine." 

" Has  any  one  ever  told  you  you  are  pretty? " 

Araby  coloured.  She  evaded  the  question. 

"  You  have  assured  me  that  I  am  not,"  she  said. 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  yourself  ?  " 

"Oh,  mother,  how  can  I  tell?" 

"You  're  not  blind,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  shortly. 
She  was  lying  back  now  in  a  deep  chair ;  her  hands 
were  clasped  behind  her  head,  and  she  looked  at 
Araby  with  half-closed  eyes. 

Araby  moved  uneasily. 

"You've  assured  me  that  I'm  not,"  she  said 
again. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         101 

"  And,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  "  is  your  confidence 
in  me  big  enough  to  make  you  believe  all  that  I 
say?" 

The  movement  that  Araby  gave  then  was  once 
more  indicative  of  her  uneasiness.  She  looked  at 
her  mother  furtively  and  looked  away.  There  was 
a  long  pause. 

"  And  you  judge  me  —  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven 
then,  —  "  you  who  understand  nothing,  and  don't 
even  know  what  is  before  you  and  behind  me. 
What  can  you  know  of  me,  Araby?  There  are 
excuses  that  you  would  not  realize  even  if  I  ex- 
plained them  to  you,  which  I  certainly  shall  not. 
I  doubt  whether  God  Himself  could  understand  me 
—  yet  He  made  me,  I  suppose.  And  you,  I  have  n't 
any  doubt,  judge  me  by  your  own  inexperience." 

Araby  looked  about  for  some  shelter.  A  book 
lay  beside  her,  but  she  lacked  the  courage  to  open 
it  and  read  deliberately.  She  took  up  a  photograph 
which  was  standing  unframed  upon  a  table.  She 
handled  it  nervously  and  in  abstraction.  Presently 
she  saw  that  she  held  a  likeness  of  Gerald.  It  was 
a  new  one,  and  it  had  been  promised  to  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven even  before  it  was  taken.  Indeed  the  promise 
and  the  photograph  stood  to  each  other  in  the  light 
of  cause  and  effect. 


102         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Oh,"  said  Araby,  hoping  to  change  the  sub- 
ject, even  at  the  risk  of  starting  another  as  dan- 
gerous as  that  she  was  choosing,  "what  a  nice 
photograph!" 

She  looked  at  it  attentively.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  it  gave  to  her  the  protection  she  was  seeking. 
The  likeness  was  admirable,  and  neither  flattered 
the  original  nor  maligned  him.  It  was  Gerald 
Ventnor  as  she  knew  him  and  as  she  thought  of 
him.  He  wore  some  violets  in  his  coat.  Araby  was 
scarcely  aware  of  the  danger  of  the  ground  on 
which  she  was  treading. 

"How  fond  he  is  of  them!"  she  said,  speaking 
of  the  flowers. 

"Who  is  fond  of  what?" 

"  Mr.  Ventnor  of  violets,"  said  Araby. 

There  flashed  upon  her  vividly  at  this  moment 
the  recollection  of  the  colour  under  a  lamp  of  a 
bunch  she  had  lately  seen.  We  remember  that 
while  Gerald  had  been  talking  to  her  the  night  be- 
fore in  the  vestibule  of  the  St.  James's  Hall  she  had 
unconsciously  contemplated  the  closely  packed  vio- 
lets he  was  wearing  in  his  coat.  She  had  some  expe- 
rience in  arranging  flowers,  and  all  unconsciously, 
in  her  unconscious  scrutiny  of  those  Gerald  wore, 
she  had  vaguely  thought  how  elaborately  each 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         103 

blossom  must  be  wired.  Something  in  the  stiffness 
of  the  result  had  displeased  her.  She  was  only  now 
aware  of  this. 

Partly  because  anything  connected  with  Gerald 
was  at  this  time  of  paramount  interest  to  her,  and 
partly,  too,  to  avert  a  renewal  of  the  embarrassing 
experience  of  the  last  few  moments,  Araby  com-  '' 
mented  upon  the  wiring  of  flowers,  and  the  effect 
manquk,  in  consequence  thereof,  of  those  flowers 
of  which  she  was  thinking.  She  was  very  young, 
you  see,  and  she  had  an  occasional  way  of  dog- 
matizing. It  was  amusing,  and  not  without  its 
charm. 

"  Of  course  one  knows  that  wire  is  necessary/ ' 
she  said,  with  the  air  of  a  judge,  "  but  one  ought 
never  to  know  that  it  is  there." 

Now  it  chanced  that  Gerald  Ventnor  had  not 
been  wearing  the  violets  in  question  at  dinner. 
Mrs.  Ruthven,  who  had  stopped  her  carriage  and 
bought  them  on  the  way  to  the  theatre,  had  given 
them  to  him  there. 

"When  did  you  see  them?"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven, 
suddenly. 

"  Last  night,"  said  Araby. 

"But  you  left  half-way  through  dinner,  and  I 
bought  them  myself  as  we  drove  to  the  theatre." 


104         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Araby  suddenly  grew  pale,  then  crimson.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  was  not  looking  at  her,  and  she  hoped 
that  her  admission  might  escape  notice. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about," 
Mrs.  Ruthven  said.  She  had  been  annoyed  by  her 
daughter's  criticism  of  that  which  she  had  chosen. 
"  I  thought  you  did  n't.  You  presume  to  give  your 
opinion  upon  a  thing  which  it  turns  out  you  have 
never  seen."  She  broke  off.  "  How  did  you  know 
about  them?"  she  asked. 

Araby  had  begun  to  breathe  again.  Now  once 
more  that  unconquerable  awe  of  her  mother  took 
possession  of  her,  and  she  was  silent.  She  turned 
the  photograph  over  and  over  in  her  hands.  She 
looked  down. 

"Yes;  how  did  you  know  about  them?"  said 
Mrs.  Ruthven  again. 

The  full  glare  of  a  tall  lamp  was  on  Araby  where 
she  sat.  She  felt  as  some  spy  may  feel  when  the 
search-light  is  turned  upon  him,  and  changes  night 
to  open  day. 

Araby' s  colour  and  her  expression  arrested  her 
mother's  attention.  Momentary  relief  came  in  the 
form  of  the  butler  with  letters.  Araby,  under  pre- 
text of  seeing  whether  there  were  any  for  herself, 
changed  her  place.  In  so  doing  she  left  Gerald's 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         105 

photograph  behind  her,  and  she  felt  that  she  had 
parted  with  a  talisman. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  glanced  at  her  letters.  She  opened 
them.  They  were  of  small  importance,  and  she  did 
not  read  them.  She  was  wondering  whether  it  could 
be  that  Gerald  Ventnor  had  discussed  her  with 
Araby.  It  was  the  fancy  of  a  jealous  woman.  Even 
that,  she  thought,  would  not  account  for  that  which 
was  puzzling  her. 

"  Look  here,  Araby,  something  is  confusing  you. 
I  can  see  that  well  enough,  and  I  can  see  too  that 
whatever  it  is  concerns  what  we  were  talking  of." 

Araby  tried  to  protest,  but  she  was  scrupulously 
conscientious  as  to  truth,  and  she  was  not  a  woman 
of  the  world,  and  could  neither  parry  nor  evade 
straight  questions. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  impa- 
tiently, "  how  you  knew  that  these  violets  existed 
at  all?" 

Araby  was  silent. 

"Well?" 

Araby  heard  the  moments  ticking  slowly  from 
the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece.  The  pendulum  was 
a  cupid  in  a  swing.  Araby  thought  that  he  was 
marking  out  the  span  of  her  torture  and  protract- 
ing it.  She  thought  of  a  certain  clock  in  Eccram 


io6         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

which  had  once  ticked  out  the  measure  of  a  youth- 
ful punishment.  Then  she  thought  of  the  two  old 
aunts. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Clara,"  she  thought,  "if  I  could  go 
back  to  you !  " 

This  was  the  aunt  who  had  wept  with  her  when 
the  punishment  was  over.  It  had  been  administered, 
Araby  remembered,  for  some  trifling  obstinacy. 
Araby' s  own  tears  had  flowed  during  the  enforced 
detention  in  the  schoolroom  on  that  summer  day, 
and  when  all  was  over  and  peace  restored,  Miss 
Wootton  had  gently  pointed  out  to  her  how  many 
tears  might  have  been  saved  by  opening  the  rebel- 
lious little  heart  at  once.  Relevantly  or  not,  Araby 
thought  of  all  this  in  those  few  minutes. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ruthven  once  more ;  "  and 
when  I  ask  questions  I  like  answers.  I  am  waiting, 
Araby.  I  want  to  be  told  how  you  knew  at  all  of 
the  violets  Mr.  Ventnor  was  wearing !  " 

"  Because  I  saw  them." 

"  I  tell  you  at  dinner  they  were  n't  there ! " 

"  I  saw  them  later." 

"When?  later?  Be  explicit,  Araby.  I  don't 
choose  to  drag  it  from  you  word  by  word,  and  I 
mean  to  know ! " 

Araby  looked  desperately  at  the   photograph 


TIME  AND4THE  WOMAN         107 

which  she  had  left  upon  the  table.  She  felt  that  in 
admitting  the  meeting  at  the  St.  James's  Hall,  she 
would  implicate  Gerald.  She  had  a  wish  to  implore 
his  forgiveness. 

"I  mean  to  know,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven 'again. 

Araby  then  bowed  to  the  inevitable,  and  made 
her  innocent  confession  with  a  feeling  of  guilt  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  criminal.  Yet  the  in- 
cident in  itself  was  nothing.  The  concealment  of 
it  magnified  it  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  actual 
facts  of  the  case,  and  she  felt  as  one  convicted  of  a 
crime.  She  had  incurred  her  mother's  displeasure, 
and  worse  than  that,  she  had  been  in  a  man- 
ner disloyal  to  Gerald.  She  was  oppressed  by  a 
sense  of  the  injustice  of  circumstance,  for  under 
the  consciousness  of  her  offence  in  the  matter,  was 
the  knowledge  that  her  mother  could  not  fairly 
expect  her  confidence.  But  so  strictly  had  she  been 
brought  up  in  the  belief  that  concealment  of  any 
sort  is  wrong,  that  she  was  far  more  distressed 
than  was  at  all  warranted. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  meanwhile  rapidly  reviewed  the 
situation.  She  took  a  definite  line  presently,  over- 
looking the  consequences  in  her  haste. 

"  As  you  said  nothing  about  it,  Araby,"  she  said, 
*°l  was  determined  to  make  you  tell  me.  It  was 


io8         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

really  very  good-natured  of  Mr.  Ventnor  to  go,  as 
I  told  him  at  the  time.  When  he  pretended  that  he 
had  done  it  of  his  own  accord,  I'm  afraid  he  rather 
exceeded  his  instructions.  I  shall  talk  to  him  about 
it.  I  wonder  you  didn't  see  that  he  was  amusing 
himself.  He  isn't  thoughtless,  as  men  go  —  at 
least  I  haven't  found  him  thoughtless;  but  it 
was  n't  quite  fair  to  make  fun  of  you,  was  it  ?  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

MRS.  RUTH  YEN  had  no  sooner  said  this  than  she 
regretted  it.  She  was  seldom  short-sighted,  and 
she  realized  at  once  that  a  word  to  Gerald  would 
naturally  elicit  the  fact,  that,  in  claiming  to  have 
sent  him  on  the  mission  to  the  St.  James's  Hall,  she 
had  departed  from  the  truth. 

The  immediate  result  of  this  falsehood  was,  how- 
ever, of  import  to  Araby.  It  brought  many  small 
things  to  an  issue.  All  day  there  had  been  grow- 
ing in  Mrs.  Ruthven's  mind  an  aversion  to  the 
sudden  intimacy  which  was  apparently  springing 
up  between  her  daughter  and  Gerald  Ventnor. 
We  are  beginning  to  know  Mrs.  Ruthven  by  this 
time,  and  her  reasons  are  not  very  far  to  seek. 
Such  young  men  as  she  chose  to  annex  she  was 
accustomed  to  consider  her  own  indisputable  prop- 
erty. For  this  day  at  least  Araby  on  winged  feet 
had  outstripped  her.  Gerald  was  obviously  attracted 
to  the  girl.  The  fact  of  his  having  left  the  theatre 
on  the  previous  evening  (on  some  trifling  and 
false  pretext),  in  order  to  rush  off  —  and  Gerald 
was  lazy  rather  than  energetic  —  on  the  chance  of 


I io         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

being  of  use  to  her,  seemed  to  prove  that  Araby's 
power  over  him  was  greater  than  her  mother  cared 
to  think. 

Araby  said  nothing,  and  presently  went  to  bed. 
She  did  not  believe  but  neither  did  she  entirely 
disbelieve  what  her  mother  had  just  told  her.  She 
was  very  unhappy,  and  she  could  not  trace  re- 
sults to  their  definite  causes.  She  was  bewildered 
too,  and  she  thought  with  shuddering  of  the  even- 
ing she  had  gone  through.  Her  mother  was  to 
her  as  unintelligible  as  ever,  and  she  was  now  ten 
times  more  alarming.  Araby  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  stayed  in  the  drawing-room  to 
think.  She  had  made  a  mistake,  she  told  herself 
again,  in  claiming  a  knowledge  of  Gerald's  meet- 
ing with  Araby  at  the  St.  James's  Hall.  The  next 
time  that  Araby  saw  him  it  was  to  be  expected 
that  she  would  make  some  allusion  to  the  unfortu- 
nate statement,  and  the  next  time  that  Araby  saw 
Gerald  would  in  all  probability  be  on  the  morrow, 
if  with  Mrs.  Ruthven  she  dined  at  Lady  Ventnor's 
and  went  on  to  Lady  George  Athol's  dance.  In 
Barn  Street  she  would  dance  with  Gerald.  Perhaps 
she  danced  as  well  as  she  skated.  Araby,  who  was 
not  out,  would  enjoy  this  dance  with  the  attractive 
and  ingenuous  enjoyment  of  a  girl  at  her  first  ball, 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         in 

and  Araby's  cheeks  would  glow  and  her  eyes 
would  glow,  and  Gerald  would  see  it,  and  some- 
thing of  her  enchantment  would  be  conveyed  to 
him,  and  Araby's  hold  on  him  would  be  strength- 
ened. Then  there  would  be  moments  that  seemed 
made  for  confidences,  and  Gerald  would  hear  of 
Mrs.  Ruthven's  version  of  the  incident  of  his  rush 
from  the  Strand  to  Piccadilly,  and  his  eyes  would 
be  opened,  and  Araby  and  he  would  be  drawn 
nearer  to  each  other  in  combining  against  her. 
Her  inaccuracy  had  been  trifling,  but  it  might 
have  dire  issue.  She  smiled  to  herself,  but  her  teeth 
were  clenched.  The  grim  irony  of  the  case  pre- 
sented itself  to  her. 

The  swinging  Cupid  was  measuring  out  an  un- 
pleasant quarter  of  an  hour  for  her  too.  She  sat 
still  for  a  long  time.  She  held  a  book,  but  she 
made  no  attempt  to  read  it.  She  closed  her  eyes 
and  lay  back  amongst  her  cushions.  They  seemed 
to  afford  her  small  ease,  for  she  moved  them  im- 
patiently, and  rearranged  them  more  than  once. 

She  rose  presently,  and,  throwing  down  her  book, 
she  went  over  to  the  mantelpiece  and  looked  at 
the  clock.  The  time  was  eleven.  She  heard  the 
servants  going  up  to  bed,  and  noted  the  heavy 
footfall  of  the  cook.  Olympe  was  not  less  stout, 


112         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

but  she  had  an  elasticity  that  discounted  her 
weight.  Mrs.  Ruthven  felt  that  just  then  she  could 
not  sleep,  and  she  called  to  her  from  the  landing 
not  to  sit  up  for  her. 

She  went  to  the  window  and  drew  aside  the 
curtains.  Primate  Street  was  white  with  powdered 
snow.  A  policeman  turned  his  bull's-eye  down 
white  areas  and  on  to  white  doorsteps.  A  cab  went 
noiselessly  by ;  a  cat  crossed  the  road  furtively, 
and  disappeared  through  some  railings.  Here  and 
there  lights  dotted  the  houses. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  gave  a  sigh  that  was  partly  res- 
tive. She  pulled  back  the  curtain  impatiently,  and 
she  began  to  pace  the  room.  Sounds  ceased  grad- 
ually in  the  house.  A  blind  rattled  as  it  was  pulled 
up  in  a  bedroom.  There  was  silence  after  that, 
and  then  there  came  a  moment  when  the  limits  of 
the  space  which  Mrs.  Ruthven  was  pacing  became 
unendurably  confined.  It  seemed  to  her  as  she 
moved  about  the  room  that  it  was  getting  smaller. 
She  felt  restrained  and  cramped.  The  fire  had  fallen 
low  in  the  grate,  and  though  the  embers  glowed 
with  the  brightness  of  frost,  the  air  was  very  cold. 

"  I  '11  go  out,"  Mrs.  Ruthven  said,  suddenly 
almost  aloud.  "  I  must  go  out.  If  I  went  to  bed 
I  should  n't  sleep." 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         113 

She  stole  up  to  her  room,  and  chose  a  thick  veil 
and  a  loose  cloak.  She  closed  the  door  gently  be- 
hind her,  and  started  walking  briskly.  She  had  no 
design.  She  wanted  to  move,  that  was  all,  and  to 
expend  thus  the  restlessness  that  possessed  her. 
She  passed  through  Berkeley  Square.  The  gaunt 
trees  were  painted  in  whites  and  blacks.  Presently 
she  was  in  Bond  Street.  It  seemed  to  belong  to 
her  that  empty  night.  Here  was  Castanet's,  where 
Gerald  and  she  had  talked  ;  there  was  the  gallery 
where  later  she  had  met  Araby.  She  shuddered, 
and  walked  faster.  She  found  herself  noting  the 
names  on  shops.  She  reached  Piccadilly. 

She  shrank  from  contact  with  the  women  who 
passed  her.  In  twos  and  threes  they  walked  or 
singly,  and  she  wondered  what  each  thought  of 
the  other.  A  large  negress  walking  modestly  hor- 
rified her.  She  crossed  to  the  lonelier  side  of  the 
street.  The  Green  Park  spread  itself  whitely  be- 
hind the  railing,  and  the  stars  were  twinkling 
above  in  a  frosty  sky.  Snow  gave  crisply  under 
her  feet.  She  watched  the  traffic  eastward  and 
westward  ;  horses  strained  and  slid  on  the  slippery 
road. 

She  reached  Hyde  Park  Corner  then,  and  she 
walked  on.  The  omnibuses  came  now  at  longer 


114         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

intervals.  She  turned  down  Seville  Street,  and  into 
Lowndes  Square,  where  she  found  more  white 
trees,  then  through  Lowndes  Street  she  walked 
into  Cadogan  Place  and  Sloane  Street. 

That  was  the  Norfolks'  house,  that  small  one 
between  a  larger  two.  It  was  all  dark.  The  recent 
painting  of  the  houses  on  either  side  did  not  tend 
to  make  it  look  less  dark.  Mrs.  Ruthven  thought 
of  the  night  when  after  supper  at  Gerald's  club  she 
had  driven  the  Norfolk  girl  home,  and  by  the  same 
token  she  remembered  that  she  had  not  returned 
Mrs.  Norfolk's  call. 

Her  restlessness  was  now  somewhat  abated.  You 
can  walk  everything  off,  she  said  to  herself,  from  a 
cold  to  an  affair  of  the  affections;  and  this  was 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  Another  mile,  she 
thought,  and  she  might  return  home  with  the  know- 
ledge that  there  sleep  would  await  her.  She  dreaded 
sleeplessness  as  she  dreaded  little  else.  She  had 
known  stifling  nights  in  India,  when  physical  dis- 
comfort had  made  rest  impossible,  and  she  had 
known  a  wakefulness  that  was  worse  than  anything 
that  could  be  caused  by  the  mere  state  of  the  ther- 
mometer. It  was  horrible  to  lie  awake,  to  hear  the 
hours  strike,  and  to  think,  and  think,  and  think, 
till  nothing  seemed  real.  .  .  . 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         115 

She  had  done  wisely  in  coming  out.  The  moon 
was  up,  and  threw  black  shadows  on  to  the  snow. 
The  number  of  the  stars  seemed  to  increase  ;  Lon- 
don looked  clean  and  pure.  Walking  aimlessly 
still,  Mrs.  Ruthven  passed  along  Pont  Street,  and 
presently  she  found  herself  in  Lennox  Gardens. 
The  name  caught  her  eye,  and  it  was  a  moment 
before  she  remembered  that  here  lived  Lady  Vent- 
nor.  She  sought  and  found  her  number.  It  was  a 
big  red  house  such  as  new  London  builds.  It  had 
a  porch  with  a  massive  gate  of  wrought  iron,  be- 
hind which  was  a  white  hall  door.  A  balcony  ran 
across  the  breadth  of  the  house,  and  broadened 
over  the  door  to  the  width  of  the  roof  of  the  porch. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  crossed  the  road. 

A  hansom  was  coming  up  the  street,  its  lights, 
like  eyes  of  fire,  glistening  on  the  snow.  The  occu- 
pant with  his  stick  was  directing  the  driver.  It  was 
Gerald  who  jumped  out,  and  was  delayed  for  a 
moment  while  he  paid  his  fare.  Mrs.  Ruthven  saw 
his  face  clearly.  He  ran  up  the  steps,  and,  having 
swung  the  iron  gate  after  him,  he  let  himself  into 
the  house  with  a  latch-key.  Mrs.  Ruthven  heard 
the  locking  and  the  bolting  of  the  door  on  the  in- 
side, and  she  made  up  her  mind  about  Araby. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  morning  brought  Lady  Ventnor's  note  en- 
dorsing her  daughter's  invitation.  Lady  Ventnor 
begged  Mrs.  Ruthven  to  waive  ceremony.  She  had 
been  wishing  to  call,  and  would  have  done  so  but 
for  so  and  so,  or  so  and  so,  and  Miss  Ventnor  had 
taken  so  great  a  fancy  to  Araby  that  Lady  Ventnor 
hoped,  and  so  on. 

This  note  was  the  outcome  of  a  severe  tussle  be- 
tween Miss  Ventnor  and  her  mother. 

"  People  I  know  nothing  about,"  Lady  Ventnor 
said.  "  You  had  no  right  to  ask  them  here  without 
consulting  me." 

"  My  good  mother,"  said  Miss  Ventnor,  quietly, 
"  don't  make  such  a  fuss  about  nothing.  They  are 
Gerald's  friends,  and  they  are  entirely  charming. 
Lady  George  was  enchanted  with  them  yesterday, 
and  implored  them  to  come  to  her  dance.  I  could  n't 
do  less  than  ask  them  to  dine  here  and  go  with  us ; 
I  did,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  Now  it  only  remains 
for  you  to  write  and  add  your  invitation  to  mine — " 

"  I  won't  be  dictated  to  by  my  children,"  said 
Lady  Ventnor,  feebly. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         117 

"  There  is  paper,"  said  Miss  Ventnor,  sweetly. 

"I  shall  not  write,"  said  Lady  Ventnor.  "You 
must  put  them  off,  and  get  out  of  the  mess  as  best 
you  can.  You  have  no  one  to  blame  for  it  but 
yourself." 

Here  Lady  Ventnor  edged  towards  the  door,  but 
her  daughter  intercepted  her. 

Then  Lady  Ventnor  began  to  cry,  after  which 
she  wrote  effusively,  as  we  know. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  met  Araby  in  the  morning  as  if 
nothing  had  happened.  Araby,  indeed,  expected 
no  unusual  mood.  Her  mother  was  always  unac- 
countable. 

"You  would  like  to  go  to  Eccram,  Araby?" 

"ToEccram?" 

Mrs.  Ruthven  explained  that  the  old  aunts  had 
written  a  few  days  since  upon  the  subject.  She 
had  said  nothing  to  Araby  at  the  time,  but  had 
kept  the  invitation  open. 

"  You  can  go,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

A  week  sooner  Araby  would  have  been  over- 
joyed. Now  she  received  the  permission  with  a 
sudden  misgiving.  She  controlled  her  feelings  and 
thanked  her  mother. 

"And  you  had  better  help  Olympe  to  pack," 
said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 


n8         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"What,  now,  mother?" 

Her  tone  expressed  her  amazement. 

"Yes,  dear." 

Araby's  face  fell. 

"When  am  I  to  go?"  she  asked. 

In  spite  of  her  the  question  framed  itself  in  this 
way. 

"To-day." 

"Mother!" 

"Aren't  you  glad?"^said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  smil- 
ing. "  You  have  talked  to  me  of  the  delights  of 
Eccram  till  all  was  blue,  and  now  that  I  give  you 
a  chance  of  tasting  them  again,  you  look  aggrieved. 
You  are  inconsistent." 

Araby  said  nothing  for  a  few  moments.  She  was 
seeking  a  motive  for  this  sudden  plan  of  her  mo- 
ther's. She  knew  Mrs.  Ruthven's  words  to  be  laws 
inexorable  and  unchangeable  as  those  of  the  Medes 
and  Persians.  For  a  second  or  so  she  thought  of 
rebellion,  but  Gerald  seemed  to  have  deserted  her, 
and  she  stood  alone.  Thrown  back  upon  herself, 
she  reviewed  the  situation  much  as  Mrs.  Ruthven 
herself  would  have  reviewed  it.  She  knew  that  her 
mother  had  received  a  note  from  either  Lady  or 
Miss  Ventnor,  because  amongst  the  letters  which 
she  sent  up  to  her  room  there  had  been  one  across 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         119 

the  envelope  of  which  was  stamped  in  a  somewhat 
assertive  die  the  address  of  the  house  in  Lennox 
Gardens.  It  might  be  that  something  had  occurred 
to  postpone  the  dinner  and  the  dance.  It  would  be 
a  relief  to  know,  since  she  was  not  to  be  present, 
that  neither  was  going  to  take  place.  There  was  a 
second  hypothesis  in  the  forlorn  hope  that  Mrs. 
Ruthven  had  forgotten  the  engagements  for  the 
evening. 

"  But  Lady  Ventnor's  ?  "  said  Araby  tentatively 
at  last,  "  Lady  Ventnor's  and  the  George  Athols'  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ruthven  looked  at  her  hands,  and  twisted 
round  a  certain  ring  that  never  failed  her  in  mo- 
ments that  were  difficult  and  perplexing.  Araby 
had  a  theory  that  her  mother  consulted  it.  It  was 
set  with  emeralds  that  blazed  as  with  sea  flames, 
and  it  had  an  Indian  history.  It  had  been  torn 
from  the  hand  of  a  dead  ranee,  and  a  dismal  tale 
of  ill-luck  descended  with  it  to  one  who  gave  it  to 
Mrs.  Ruthven  with  its  full  pedigree,  and  the  wish 
that  it  might  prove  her  destruction  as  she  had 
proved  his.  Mrs.  Ruthven  laughed  at  the  time, 
declaring  that  she  was  not  superstitious. 

"  We  shall  be  very  good  friends,  you  and  I,  little 
ring,"  she  prophesied,  with  a  success  that  had  fol- 
lowed her  at  least  up  to  the  time  of  which  I  write. 


120         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"Well,  that  is  just  it,"  she  said  presently  in 
answer  to  Araby' s  ventured  question.  "I  don't 
want  to  take  you  to  this  dance.  You  are  not  out, 
Araby,  and  I  disapprove  of  girls  going  to  balls 
before  they  are." 

"  But  a  small  dance  — !  Lady  George  said  it  was 
to  be  a  small  dance." 

"  Dear  Araby,  don't  argue.  I  am  sorry  if  you 
are  disappointed.  You  would  not  really  have  en- 
joyed it.  Very  young  girls  either  bore  men — a  bore- 
dom I  can  tell  you  which  reacts  upon  the  girl — or 
else  they  amuse  them,  in  which  case  the  unhappy 
girl  is  made  a  fool  of.  I  don't  want  this  to  happen 
with  you,  Araby ;  what  you  told  me  last  night 
showed  me  how  easily  this  would  happen  with  you. 
You  must  wait.  I  will  present  you  this  year,  and 
after  that  your  fun  can  begin,  and  I  shall  give  you 
plenty  of  freedom ;  but  till  then  —  and  it  is  only  a 
few  months  —  you  must  be  content." 

Araby  said  nothing.  The  covert  allusion  to 
Gerald  had  wounded  her  more  deeply  perhaps  than 
her  mother  knew.  If  he  had  indeed  been  sent  on 
that  mission,  which  she  had  thought  self-imposed, 
then  it  was  true  that  he  had  laughed  at  her.  And 
this  was  a  terrible  thought.  It  may  be  that  Araby 's 
youth  made  it  even  the  more  terrible.  It  was  with 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         121 

great  difficulty  that  she  kept  the  tears  from  her 
eyes.  Now  she  would  go.  Now  she  wished  to  go. 
Nothing  would  have  induced  her  to  dine  at  Lady 
Ventnor's,  nor  to  dance  in  Barn  Street.  Yesterday 
had  been  too  happy  a  day,  and  to-day  came  the 
penalty.  Oh,  London !  It  stifled  her ;  it  shut  her 
in ;  it  crushed  her.  She  had  a  fancy  that  Eccram 
would  prove  balm  to  her  wounded  feelings ;  and 
there  came  to  her  a  longing  for  it  fiercer  even  than 
those  she  used  to  experience  in  the  early  days  of 
her  life  in  town.  But  it  did  not  last. 

She  left  the  room  and  ran  up  to  her  own. 

"  Olympe,  I  am  going  to  Eccram.  I  am  going 
to-day." 

"I  know.  I  begin  already  to  pack.  Mademoiselle 
is  glad  to  go  ?  " 

Araby  saw  then  that  her  trunk  stood  open  at 
the  foot  of  her  bed.  Olympe  with  careful  selection 
had  ranged  beside  it  such  things  as  she  thought 
her  young  mistress  would  require.  Under  a  chair 
lay  her  skates  strapped  neatly  together.  The  sight 
of  them  brought  to  her  a  flood  of  recollections. 
Her  lips  trembled. 

"Yes,  I  am  glad  to  go.  I — never  was  so  glad 
about  anything  before.  I  am  going  home — home." 

Something  in  the  tone  of  the  voice  that  spoke 


122         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

made  Olympe  look  up  suddenly.  She  had  just 
knelt  down  beside  the  box,  and  was  taking  out 
the  tray  as  a  preparation  for  the  beginning  of  her 
labours.  She  put  it  hurriedly  down  beside  her  on 
the  floor,  and  rose  to  her  feet  as  rapidly  as  her 
build  would  allow. 

The  next  moment  Araby  was  crying  on  her 
ample  bosom.  In  all  her  woe  Araby  remarked  that 
she  had  never  before  known  how  ample  it  was.  It 
had  a  roundness  and  a  warmth  that  somehow  sug- 
gested the  maternity  that  lay  in  the  good  woman's 
nature,  and  if  the  soothing  words,  half  of  French 
and  half  of  English,  that  Olympe  spoke  tenderly 
and  caressingly  into  her  ears  made  her  tears  to 
flow  but  the  more  freely,  Araby  was  greatly  com- 
forted. No  explanation  was  asked  and  none  of- 
fered between  them.  Olympe  had  a  tact  that 
would  have  been  invaluable  in  other  walks  of  life. 
It  had  indeed  its  very  appreciable  worth  in  her 
own. 

She  regarded  Araby  with  an  affection  and  a 
pity  that  lost  nothing  from  the  fact  of  her  admir- 
ation for  Araby' s  mother.  She  alone  possibly  of 
all  who  knew  Mrs.  Ruthven,  approached  to  an 
understanding  of  her.  Olympe  had  lived  in  strange 
places,  and  had  what  her  late  mistress  once  called 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         123 

the  devil's  own  experience.  It  was  experience,  how- 
ever, for  the  most  part  at  second-hand,  and  Olympe 
was  content  to  look  on. 

"  Je  me  connais  en  hommes,"  she  said,  much  as 
Napoleon  may  have  said  it.  Moreover  she  could 
add,  "  En  femmes  aussi." 

Araby,  then,  dried  her  eyes  after  a  time,  and  even 
was  led  to  take  some  small  interest  in  her  packing. 
She  thought  of  Eccram,  and  the  old  aunts  who  would 
be  so  glad  to  see  her.  They  would  come  running 
out  into  the  hall,  Miss  Laura  possibly  carrying  un- 
consciously at  her  back  the  antimacassar  off  the 
chair  in  which  she  had  been  sitting.  (The  antima- 
cassars at  Eccram  were  aggressive,  and  of  a  terrible 
kind  of  work,  which  is,  I  believe,  called  crochet,  and 
which  composes  itself  of  loops  and  chains,  that 
catch  on  to  buttons.)  Araby  smiled  in  recollection 
of  the  day  when  one  of  her  aunts  had  taken  unwit- 
tingly an  antimacassar  to  church.  Behind  all  this 
was  the  burning  thought  of  Gerald.  She  was  hurt 
beyond  endurance  —  if  the  words  had  any  mean- 
ing, for  what  is  there  in  life  that  cannot  be  endured? 
—  by  the  suggestion  that  he  had  made  her  his  fair 
sport.  At  one  moment  she  believed  it,  at  another  she 
had  the  conviction  that  her  mother  had  not  been 
bound  strictly  by  any  regard  for  truth.  At  dinner 


124         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

that  night  at  Lady  Ventnor's  she  would  have  been 
able  to  tell  from  his  manner. 

She  could  not  bear  to  think  of  Lennox  Gardens 
or  Barn  Street.  Oh,  let  her  think  of  Eccram,  where 
nothing  that  was  disturbing  could  enter.  She  would 
throw  herself  into  all  the  old  country  pleasures. 
She  would  fill  her  days  so  full  that  there  would  be 
no  time  for  thoughts  of  Gerald  to  come  to  her. 
She  would  visit  the  old  women  in  the  village ;  she 
would  walk  for  miles ;  she  would  ride  if  the  frost 
broke  up.  Perhaps  Herbert  Pine  would  be  at  home. 
Then  she  would  skate  with  him,  and  forget  Gerald. 
She  shuddered  as  she  thought  this.  There  would 
be  the  animals,  anyway,  the  horses,  the  dogs. 
Herbert  Pine  used  to  be  a  little  bit  in  love  with 
her.  It  would  be  nice  to  have  some  one  in  love 
with  you,  so  that  you  could  shrug  your  shoulders 
at  some  one  else.  Yes,  she  would  take  her  prettiest 
frocks  after  all.  And  she  would  take  her  Bond  Street 
hat  for  Sundays.  The  vicarage  pew  commanded 
that  of  the  Hall.  It  would  be  nice  too  to  be  fresh 
from  London,  and  to  be  looked  at  with  interest. 
Horrid  London  !  dreadful  London !  where  every- 
thing failed  you,  and  there  was  n't  any  truth  or  any 
faith!  Still  to  come  thence  into  the  heart  of  a  some- 
what backward  part  of  the  country,  where  at  least 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         125 

she  would  be  better-looking  and  better  dressed  than 
any  of  the  local  girls,  was  not  without  its  attendant 
satisfactions. 

Araby  was  startled  by  the  opening  of  the  door 
and  the  appearance  of  her  mother. 

"  I  've  just  told  them  to  get  you  some  lunch, 
dear.  You  have  n't  very  much  time,  because  I  find 
that  you  must  be  at  Euston  by  three.  You  reach 
Eccram  at  nine  to-night,  and  I  have  telegraphed 
to  your  aunts  to  have  you  met.  I  am  going  to 
lunch  with  you  now,  and  I  '11  go  to  Euston  with 
you  and  see  you  off,  and  tell  the  guard  to  look 
after  you.  I  wish  I  could  send  Olympe  with  you." 

"  I  shall  be  all  right  alone,  mother.  I  have  trav- 
elled alone  before." 

"Exactly.  Now  come  and  have  something  to 
eat,  and  Olympe  will  finish  packing  for  you." 

Araby  followed  her  mother  from  the  room.  Mrs. 
Ruthven's  manner  was  kind,  even  affectionate. 
She  gave  Araby  more  money  than  it  was  possible 
that  she  could  want.  She  entrusted  her  with  warm 
messages  to  the  Miss  Woottons. 

"I  shall  miss  you,  Araby.  You  won't  believe 
that  perhaps,  but  I  shall.  You  are  a  very  good 
girl  in  some  ways,  and  I  dare  say  I  am  rather  try- 
ing to  you." 


126  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Araby  murmured  something,  she  was  not  sure 
what.  She  made  an  effort  to  eat,  but  her  plate 
went  away  much  as  it  had  come  to  her.  Some- 
times she  wondered  whether  she  was  not  dream- 
ing—  the  whole  thing  was  so  sudden.  She  found 
it  difficult  to  realize  that  she  was  going  away. 
Presently  she  began  to  wonder  how  long  her  visit 
was  to  last.  The  old  aunts  were  so  much  attached 
to  her  that  they,  she  knew,  would  be  unwilling  to 
fix  a  limit  to  its  duration. 

"I  believe  you're  a  little  sorry  to  go,"  Mrs. 
Ruthven  said. 

"I  am/'  said  Araby — "for  many  things.  But 
I  shall  be  very  glad  to  see  them  all  again  at 
Eccram." 

"  Of  course." 

Araby  waited  a  few  moments,  and  then  asked,  — 

"  How  long  shall  I  be  away  ?  " 

"We  needn't  settle  that  just  now,"  said  her 
mother.  "  Perhaps  I  may  go  down  myself ;  I  don't 
know.  I  may  be  dull  when  you  are  gone,  and  I 
may  follow  you  down." 

Araby  looked  round  the  room.  It  had  a  few  as- 
sociations for  her  now.  Some  of  them  were  agree- 
able, and  some  were  painful,  and  some  of  them 
were  at  this  moment  both.  It  was  here  —  five 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         127 

minutes  ago  as  it  seemed  !  —  that  she  had  first 
thought  of  Gerald. 

"  And  you  must  write  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
"  I  should  n't  be  at  all  surprised  if  we  were  better 
friends  when  next  we  meet.  You  wish  to  like  me, 
don't  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  would  let  me,  mother." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  rang  for  coffee,  and  not  many 
minutes  later  a  cab  stood  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MRS.  RUTHVEN  never  cheapened  herself  — she 
was  too  clever  a  woman  for  that ;  and  after  all  she 
wrote  a  note  to  Lady  Ventnor,  excusing  herself 
from  dining  in  Lennox  Gardens  on  the  ground  of 
the  absence  of  Araby.  The  immediate  result  of 
this  was,  as  Mrs.  Ruthven  expected,  that  two  days 
later  Lady  Ventnor  called  formally  in  Primate 
Street,  though  she  said  all  sorts  of  things  to  her 
daughter,  and  again  abused  Mrs.  Sandon  to  her 
for  the  introduction.  But  to  Barn  Street  Mrs. 
Ruthven  determined  to  go. 

When  she  had  left  her  note  she  directed  her 
coachman  to  Earl  Street.  She  had  seen  little  of 
Mrs.  Sandon  of  late,  and  she  was  glad  to  find  her 
at  home.  Mrs.  Sandon  received  her  with  open 
arms. 

"And  what  have  you  done  with  Araby?"  she 
asked. 

"  Sent  her  down  to  see  the  Wootton  women  at 
Eccram." 

"What  for?" 

"  Fun,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         129 

"  Whose  ? "  said  Mrs.  Sandon.  She  looked  at 
her  cousin  for  a  few  moments  in  silence.  "Now 
I  wonder  why,  really,"  she  said  then  with  amuse- 
ment. "  You  told  her  probably  that  she  wanted 
country  air.  So  we  all  do.  But  I  wonder  what  your 
real  reason  was?  " 

Mrs.  Ruthven  laughed  merrily. 

"  Araby  likes  Eccram." 

Mrs.  Sandon  frowned,  but  her  eyes  continued 
to  smile. 

"  I  ought  to  lecture  you,"  she  said  at  last.  "  I 
disapprove  of  you  dreadfully.  I  content  myself 
with  discussing  you  —  oh,  only  with  Lady  Murga- 
troyd.  I  tell  her  all  that  I  have  against  you  —  and 
there  is  a  good  deal,  Johnnie.  The  odd  thing 
about  it  is,  that  she  always  takes  your  part." 

"  Is  that  why  I  like  her?"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
"  The  oddest  person  —  an  example,  a  symbol  al- 
most, of  the  unsatisfied.  She  comes  to  see  me 
very  often." 

A  ring  heralded  a  visitor,  and  it  was  Lady  Mur- 
gatroyd  who  was  announced.  She  looked  tired 
and  depressed.  She  brightened  up  as  she  saw 
Mrs.  Ruthven.  She  talked  more  rapidly  than  of 
old,  and  hurried  from  subject  to  subject.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  looked  at  the  clock  after  a  time.  She  had 


130         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

to  order  some  flowers  to  wear  at  Lady  George's 
dance. 

"Oh,  you  are  going  there,"  said  Lady  Murga- 
troyd ;  "  so  am  I.  Will  you  dine  with  me  ?  and  we 
can  go  together.  It  would  be  charitable.  If  you 
have  no  other  engagement,  do  come." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  had  no  other,  and  she  accepted 
the  invitation. 

The  house  in  Primate  Street  felt  empty  when 
she  returned  to  it  to  spend  the  two  hours  that 
must  be  got  through  before  it  would  be  time  to 
dress.  This  was  the  hour  when  it  had  always 
amused  her  to  tease  Araby;  but  just  now  Mrs. 
Ruthven  was  not  sure  that  she  would  have  felt 
any  inclination  to  tease  her. 

She  thought  of  her  walk  of  the  night  before 
with  wonder.  It  was  very  seldom  that  her  heart 
got  the  better  of  her  head.  What  had  come  to 
her? 

Lady  Murgatroyd's  house  was  on  the  opposite 
side  of  Earl  Street  to  that  of  Mrs.  Sandon.  It  was 
very  much  smaller,  but  otherwise  of  the  same 
build.  Lady  Murgatroyd  met  her  guest  gratefully. 

"It  was  really  kind  of  you  to  come.  Do  my 
canaries  bother  you  ?  " 

The  birds,  notwithstanding  the  hour,  were  verily 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         131 

a  screech  in  the  back  drawing-room.  The  noise, 
which  was  deafening,  ceased  abruptly  as  she  threw 
a  cloth  over  the  cage.  She  had  been  playing,  she 
said.  Mrs.  Ruthven  noticed  the  piano,  which  had 
a  very  beautiful  case,  and  in  the  sudden  silence 
admired  it. 

"  It  was  chosen  for  me  by  one  who  was  once  a 
great  friend,"  said  Lady  Murgatroyd,  and  Mrs. 
Ruthven  gathered  that  Sloane  Wetherby,  of  whom 
she  had  heard  from  Mrs.  Sandon,  was  not  for- 
gotten. 

Dinner  passed  uneventfully.  Mrs.  Ruthven 
would  probably  have  been  bored  if  she  had  not 
known  that  she  was  to  see  Gerald  later  on.  On 
the  preceding  night  very  possibly  she  might  have 
felt  more  in  sympathy  with  the  curious  tempera- 
ment of  her  hostess,  but  to-night  it  said  little  to 
her.  She  wished  to  think  that  plain  people,  and 
commonplace  people,  and  people  generally  un- 
attractive, were  protected  from  hopes  and  desires 
which  could  never  be  realized.  Thus  ought  nature 
to  adjust  circumstances  to  cases.  But  her  know- 
ledge of  Lady  Murgatroyd  told  her  that  this  plain 
woman  suffered  keenly. 

A  certain  photograph  had  lately  made  its  re- 
appearance in  Lady  Murgatroyd' s  rooms.  It  stood 


132         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

framed  on  a  table ;  unframed  it  lay  here  and  there 
amongst  others.  Mrs.  Ruthven  took  up  one  of 
these. 

Lady  Murgatroyd  watched  her  for  a  moment  or 
two  and  began  to  tremble.  Then  quite  quietly  she 
told  Mrs.  Ruthven  the  ugly  story  of  her  friend. 

"I  would  have  trusted  him  with  my  soul,"  she 
said  in  conclusion. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  who,  strangely  enough,  was  con- 
stantly finding  herself  the  recipient  of  such  confi- 
dences said  little,  but  she  looked  at  the  photograph 
more  closely.  Lady  Murgatroyd  seemed  disap- 
pointed. She  sighed  impatiently,  and  changed  the 
conversation. 

When  at  length  the  carriage  came  round,  both 
felt  its  arrival  to  be  a  relief. 

Barn  Street  was  blocked  with  carriages.  They 
reached  up  from  the  big  stone  house  which  was 
the  George  Athols'  to  that  end  of  the  street  where 
were  such  smaller  houses  as  Mrs.  Man  ton's,  and 
the  Saltashes',  and  that  little  pink  house  where 
once  had  lived  Billy  Hartley  and  Mary  Anne  Smith. 

Lady  George  was  sincere  in  her  regrets  for  the 
absence  of  Araby.  Mrs.  Ruthven  made  what  ex- 
cuses seemed  to  her  good,  and  with  her  smile 
passed  on  to  Lord  George. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         133 

"  And  you  haven't  brought  the  beautiful  daugh- 
ter," he  said.  "Ah,  well  —  perhaps,  as  she  isn't 
out.  My  wife's  small  dances  have  a  way  of  grow- 
ing." 

"  And  what  we  are  giving  a  dance  for  at  all," 
said  Lady  George,  who  had  an  ear  for  all  that  her 
husband  said,  "  with  one  girl  married  and  one  en- 
gaged, I  don't  know.  I  believe  we  do  this  sort  of 
thing  to  amuse  our  husbands." 

"  Yes,  to  amuse  our  husbands,"  said  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven. 

She  looked  about  her  seeking  Gerald,  but  the 
Ventnors  had  not  yet  put  in  an  appearance.  The 
Norfolk  girl  nodded  and  smiled.  Hartford  leant 
against  a  pillar  and  looked  gloomy.  Mrs.  Ruthven 
felt  her  youngest  and  wished  to  dance.  The  music 
tempted  her.  One  of  the  Hungarian  bands  was 
playing,  and  a  waltz  swung  in  the  air.  Lord  George 
himself  took  her  into  the  ball-room  and  a  moment 
later  was  dancing  with  her.  So  started  the  evening. 

It  was  Miss  Ventnor  who  first  made  her  way  to 
Mrs.  Ruthven  when  she  and  her  brother  arrived. 
She  was  too  full  of  her  disappointment  not  to  give 
voice  to  it  at  once.  Mrs.  Ruthven  after  looking 
astray  for  a  moment  hastened  to  answer  her  that 
the  disappointment  was  her  own  and  Araby's.  But 


134         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

women  are  quick  in  their  judgments  of  women,  and 
something  in  Mrs.  Ruthven's  tone  as  she  spoke  of 
her  daughter  struck  Miss  Ventnor.  She  mentioned 
Araby  again  tentatively,  and  heard  it  once  more. 
It  was  not  impatience  but  it  suggested  impatience. 
Miss  Ventnor  looked  at  her  curiously,  but  Mrs. 
Ruthven  had  caught  sight  of  Gerald  who  now 
came  over  to  her,  and  Miss  Ventnor  moved  away. 
Gerald,  unlike  his  sister,  said  nothing  of  any  dis- 
appointment. But  neither  did  he  speak  of  Araby. 
When  Miss  Ventnor  looked  in  her  brother's  direc- 
tion again  he  and  Mrs.  Ruthven  were  dancing. 
This  was  Mrs.  Ruthven's  night.  Everything 
pleased  her.  She  felt,  as  she  looked,  not  a  day 
more  than  twenty-five.  Dancing  with  her  host  she 
might  have  been  his  daughter.  Dancing  with  Ger- 
ald she  could  not  have  been  supposed  the  mother 
of  the  exiled  Araby.  Gerald  may  not  have  for- 
gotten but  he  said  nothing.  And  so  for  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven all  the  conditions  seemed  right.  She  looked 
at  the  band  as  she  passed  it.  The  volume  of  the 
swinging  waltz  seemed  to  come  from  the  violin  of 
the  conductor  whose  whole  body  swayed  as  he 
played.  It  was  good  to  dance  to  such  playing; 
good  to  dance  with  this  partner ;  good  just  to 
be  dancing  again.  Yes,  the  conditions  were  right. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         135 

"Will  you  come  down  to  supper  with  me?" 
Gerald  said. 

But  of  course.  That  was  understood,  was  n't  it? 
Besides,  she  had  things  to  say  to  him. 

Gerald  left  her  presently  and  Hartford  took  his 
place  —  only,  however,  to  be  kept  rigorously  to 
the  impersonal.  She  had  no  need  just  then  of  his 
devotion  to  tell  her  that  her  charm  was  potent. 
She  saw  it  in  the  eyes  of  all  who  looked  at  her. 

People  were  asking  about  her.  She  recognized 
in  the  crowd  faces  that  she  knew  ;  and  her  hostess 
—  a  clever  woman,  who  was  never  jealous,  and 
who  cared  so  truly  for  her  stout  and  good-tempered 
husband  that  she  devoted  herself  to  whomsoever 
he  might  admire  —  made  much  of  her. 

Thus  —  "managing"  him  as  she  called  it!  — 
Lady  George  found  occasion  to  say  to  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven  again  that  it  had  been  good  of  her  not  to 
stand  upon  ceremony. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  explained  with  her  delightful 
smile  that  she  was  not  of  the  sort  that  stands  upon 
anything  so  uncomfortable. 

"  We  shall  like  each  other,"  said  Lady  George. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  saw  a  ladder  to  success  in  Lon- 
don. She  began  to  wonder  now  whether  it  would 
not  be  worth  her  while  to  ascend  it.  Questions  of 


136         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

course  would  be  asked  from  time  to  time  about 
her  husband.  Well !  no  need  to  proclaim  that  the 
indifference  which  had  for  so  many  years  reigned 
between  them  had  now  given  place  to  a  mutual  in- 
toleration  which  made  a  life  together  impossible. 
Araby,  moreover,  would  be  a  help  to  her ;  but  then 
Araby  was  Araby.  This  brought  her  back  to  Ger- 
ald, and  Gerald  at  this  moment  came  to  claim  her 
for  supper. 

They  made  their  way  together  through  the  draw- 
ing-rooms and  across  the  square  landing,  where 
Lady  George  received  her  guests,  and  down  the 
wide  stairs  to  the  dining-room.  Gerald  found  a 
table — the  only  one,  it  so  chanced,  that  was  free. 
Miss  Norfolk  and  Hartford  came  into  the  room,  and 
Hartford,  threading  his  way  amongst  the  chairs, 
could  be  seen  making  for  the  long  table  that  ran 
across  the  end  of  it.  Miss  Norfolk  however  de- 
murred. Hartford  took  an  indolent  survey  of  the 
smaller  tables  and  appeared  to  be  saying  that 
there  was  n't  a  seat. 

But  Miss  Norfolk,  it  was  plain,  was  not  to  be 
done  out  of  a  t£te-£-t£te  supper,  and  reconnoitred 
for  herself.  She  saw  a  sister  in  a  corner,  and,  leav- 
ing Hartford,  she  went  over  to  her  —  probably  to 
see  what  stage  in  the  supper  she  had  reached. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         137 

What  that  stage  may  have  been  and  what  passed 
between  the  two,  Mrs.  Ruthven,  who  was  watching, 
could  only  surmise.  The  immediate  result,  how- 
ever, of  some  whispers  was  the  bustling  up  of  the 
sister's  partner,  and  the  ceding  of  the  table  —  a 
courtesy  more  gratefully  acknowledged,  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven saw,  by  the  lady  than  the  gentleman. 

"  Esprit  de  corps,"  she  said,  smiling,  to  Gerald. 
"  Rather  fine  of  the  sister." 

"The  Norfolks?  Six  of 'em.  They've  got  to." 

But  he  did  not  smile. 

Mrs.  Ruthven,  still  smiling,  watched  the  sparkling 
bubbles  that  rose  in  her  champagne.  There  was  a 
distant  sound  of  dancing  and  of  music,  and  of  the 
wheels  of  the  carriages  of  arriving  or  departing 
guests.  There  were  violets  on  the  tables,  and  the 
scent  of  them  hung  in  the  air.  This  arrested  her 
attention  presently  and  took  her  back  to  the  night 
before,  and  thence  to  the  night  before  that.  She 
was  not  quite  certain  yet  what  she  should  say  to 
Gerald.  While  she  was  hesitating  she  noticed 
suddenly  that  he  was  not  talking.  At  the  same 
moment  he  precipitated  matters  by  reminding  her 
that  she  had  said  she  had  something  to  say  to 
him. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  lowered  speculative  eyelids. 


138         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Oh,  only  to  thank  you  for  looking  after  Araby 
for  me." 

He  said  that  it  had  been  pleasant  to  look  after 
her,  as  Mrs.  Ruthven  called  it,  that  Miss  Ruthven 
skated  unusually  well. 

"  But  I  'm  not  talking  of  Wimbledon,"  said  Mrs. 
Ruthven,  "  nor  of  yesterday  at  all,  for  the  matter 
of  that." 

"What  then?"  said  Gerald.  He  emptied  his 
glass  and  refilled  it. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  where  you  were  go- 
ing ?  "  Mrs.  Ruthven  said,  quietly. 

Gerald  flushed  a  little  when  he  gathered  her 
meaning,  but  he  was  not  disconcerted.  It  would  not 
have  been  easy  to  rob  him  of  the  self-possession 
that  was  his  birthright. 

"  It  would  have  been  making  a  fuss  about  such 
a  very  small  thing,  would  n't  it?"  he  said.  "I 
wasn't  very  long,  and  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  I  had  put  Miss  Ruthven  safely  into 
a  cab." 

But  there  was  something  about  him  — something 
which  she  knew  now  had  been  "  over "  him  all 
the  evening.  She  wondered  suddenly  whether  this, 
after  all,  was  quite  her  evening.  She  had  intended 
to  give  him  a  version  (of  sorts)  of  what  she  had 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         139 

unguardedly  said  to  Araby  —  trusting  to  the  pleas- 
ant influences  of  the  moment  to  aid  her  in  making 
the  reprehensible  appear  laudable ;  but  she  found 
now  that  she  could  not.  Very  well,  there  was  always 
more  than  one  way  of  dealing  with  a  situation. 
But  why  was  her  evening  somehow  spoilt,  and  why 
at  this  moment  must  there  recur  to  her  the  recol- 
lection of  a  sound  she  had  heard  the  night  before 
on  her  unaccountable  walk?  —  the  sound  of  the 
locking  and  the  bolting  of  a  door ;  a  sound  which 
seemed  to  shut  him-who-locked-and-bolted  se- 
curely in,  and  to  thrust  her-who-listened  like  a 
beggar  from  the  threshold  and  out  into  the  cheer- 
less street. 

Not  Mrs.  Ruthven's  evening.  Whose  then  ?  Was 
it  Araby's? 


CHAPTER  XII 

Miss  NORFOLK  had  a  theory,  whether  consciously 
gleaned  from  Thackeray  or  not  I  cannot  say,  that 
any  woman  with  patience  and  tact,  especially  tact, 
can  make  any  man  marry  her.  She  aired  this  idea, 
with  others  that  were  more  or  less  advanced,  in 
the  work-room  at  the  top  of  the  house  in  Sloane 
Street. 

She  had  an  antagonistic  sister  somewhere 
amongst  the  five  girls  who  stood  to  her  in  that 
relationship,  and  that  sister  said,  — 

"Well,  and  why  don't  you  do  it  yourself?  " 

This  caused  three  of  the  other  girls,  together 
with  the  maid  with  the  sewing-machine  and  the 
large  pair  of  scissors,  to  giggle.  The  maid  was  so 
important  a  person  in  this  house  of  lady-tailors 
that  she  was  privileged. 

"  I  shall  in  good  time,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  com- 
posedly. 

Netty,  the  pert  sister,  affected  not  to  hear. 

"  Did  you  say,"  she  asked,  threading  her  needle, 
"  did  you  say,  —  get  out  of  the  light,  Anne,  I  can't 
see,  —  did  you  say  that  it  took  a  good  time  ?  " 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         141 

Old  jokes  pass  muster  in  large  families. 

"  I  gave  you  as  much  help  as  I  could  last  night," 
said  Ethel.  She  was  working  buttonholes  and  she 
bit  her  cotton. 

"  You  '11  spoil  your  teeth,  miss,"  said  the  maid, 
holding  up  a  finger  of  solemn  warning.  "  However 
many  times  must  I  tell  you  that  ?  I  knew  a  young 
girl  myself  as  wore  hers  to  stumps  through  nothing 
else  but  biting  thread." 

"  Oh,  I  know  all  about  that  young  person,"  said 
Ethel.  "  She  died,  did  n't  she,  Robson,  from  swal- 
lowing the  ends  of  the  thread  that  she  bit  off  ?  " 

"  They  twisted  themselves  round  her  heart,  Miss 
Ethel,  —  I  should  run  a  gusset  there,  Miss  Anne,  — 
and  she  suffered  tortures  through  having  to  lay  on 
a  sofa  for  years  owing  to  an  injury  done  to  the 
spine  of  her  back  when  a  child." 

Robson' s  speeches  were  masterly  examples  of 
non  sequitur. 

"  It  ought  to  be  a  warning  to  me,"  said  Ethel. 
"  Netty,  give  me  the  needle  you  have  just  threaded 
for  yourself.  Your  eyes  are  a  year  younger  than 
mine." 

Netty  grumbled  good-humouredly. 

"  And  you  know  how  I  hate  threading  needles," 
she  said. 


142         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  But  not  for  me,"  said  Ethel,  sweetly. 

The  tongues  were  silent  then  for  a  few  minutes. 
The  noise  of  the  sewing-machine  throbbed  like  a 
fevered  pulse.  There  was  the  sound  of  the  drawing 
of  a  quick  needle  with  its  attendant  cotton  through 
silk.  Miss  Norfolk  was  cutting  out  on  a  table  by 
the  aid  of  paper  patterns.  The  scissors  made  a 
curious  noise  against  the  wood.  An  iron  stood 
against  a  small  gas-stove.  A  pile  of  ladies'  fashion 
papers  lay  on  the  floor. 

Anne  rose  presently  and  measured  some  calico 
with  her  finger.  She  cut  an  opening  into  it  of  about 
an  inch  and  began  to  tear  it.  It  gave  out  an  ex- 
cruciating sound  which  called  forth  a  chorus  of  in- 
dignation, and  sent  the  hands  of  all  except  the 
maid  to  their  ears. 

"If  you  do  that  again  I'll  scrag  you,"  cried 
Netty.  "I  don't  quite  know  what  it  means,  but 
I  41  do  it." 

Barbara  said  Anne  was  a  Perfect  Pig.  Anne  re- 
torted by  tearing  another  length  of  calico.  There 
was  a  commotion  then,  during  which  Robson  im- 
plored convulsively  for  peace,  declaring  that  she 
knew  the  iron  would  be  knocked  down,  and  that 
she  had  known  a  house  burnt  to  the  ground 
through  the  upsetting  of  a  paraffin  lamp. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         143 

It  was  some  minutes  before  order  was  restored. 

"And  how  did  you  help  Harry  last  night ?" 
asked  Netty  of  Ethel,  when  once  more  a  voice 
could  make  itself  heard. 

"Well,  you  see,  Harry  was  on  the  Hartford 
chase  last  night,"  said  Ethel,  looking  from  Netty, 
who  folded  her  arms  and  put  down  her  work  to 
listen,  to  Miss  Norfolk,  who  went  on  complacently 
cutting  out,  "  and  after  some  difficulty  in  keeping 
him  out  of  the  coverts  with  Mrs.  Ruthven,  she  ran 
him  into  the  supper-room." 

"  Feed  men,"  said  Netty,  who  took  her  goods 
where  she  found  them. 

"  It 's  rather  vulgar  of  you  to  put  it  that  way," 
said  Ethel. 

"  You  're  both  vulgar,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  "  dis- 
gustingly vulgar,"  but  she  laughed. 

"It  is  in  the  blood,  you  know,"  said  Netty. 
"  Mamma  may  say  what  she  likes,  but  we  're  not 
the  Norfolk  Norfolks  really.  I  don't  believe  we  're 
even  distant  connections.  Papa  made  his  money — " 

"  Lost  his  money,"  corrected  Ethel. 

"  Yes,  lost  his  money  in  —  well,  no  matter !  And 
we  have  never  heard  of  a  grandfather.  I  believe 
his  father  died  before  he  was  born  —  his  mother 
too,  I  dare  say,  if  one  knew  the  truth." 


144         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"Oh,  Miss  Netty,"  said  the  maid,  "you  will 
have  your  bit  of  fun.  You  do  say  things  a  treat." 

"Enfin,  continuez,  Mademoiselle,"  said  Netty, 
in  the  words  and  the  intonation  of  a  quondam 
governess. 

"  Well,  there  was  n't  a  table  to  feed  him  at,"  said 
Ethel,  "and  so  I  hurried  up  my  partner  —  told  him 
that  I  was  engaged  for  the  next  dance  and  wanted 
to  dance  it,  and  in  my  unselfishness  left  half  my 
meringue  —  and  you  know,  Netty,  how  I  adore 
meringues  —  and  I  gave  her  my  place,  and  she  fed 
him  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  he  did  n't  speak." 

"But  you  know  any  woman  can  marry  any 
man,"  said  Netty. 

Miss  Norfolk,  or  Harry  as  she  was  called  at 
home,  smiled  complacently  to  herself  and  continued 
to  cut  out. 

"It  would  be  dull  up  here,  would  n't  it,"  she  said, 
abstractedly,  "if  I  did  n't  give  you  something  to 
talk  about  ?  I  wonder  how  this  arm-hole  ought  to 
be  cut.  Come  here,  Robson,  and  tell  me.  No,  Ethel, 
go  on  with  your  buttonholes,  I  didn't  ask  you." 

"And  it's  well  I  came,  miss,"  said  the  maid 
when  she  had  inspected  Miss  Norfolk's  operations. 
"You  'd  have  spoilt  a  piece  of  good  stuff  if  you  *d 
gone  on.  The  pattern  's  wrong  itself." 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         145 

In  this  way,  and  like  many  others,  passed  the 
morning  succeeding  the  dance  in  Barn  Street. 
Sometimes  one  or  other  of  this  family  of  good 
girls  stretched  her  arms  or  pricked  her  finger,  and 
spoke  a  small  swear-word  or  gave  a  little  cry. 
There  would  have  been,  that  is  to  say,  a  certain 
monotony  in  the  hours  spent  in  the  work-room 
but  for  the  exuberance  of  the  spirits  of  the  workers. 
Mrs.  Norfolk  gave  her  daughters  all  the  fun  that 
she  could  afford,  and  in  return  they  had  to  do 
their  own  dressmaking  and  hers. 

Having  failed  to  get,  as  she  would  have  ex- 
pressed it,  a  rise  out  of  her  elder  sister,  Netty  of 
the  pert  mouth  and  the  mischievous  eyes  turned 
upon  Anne. 

The  Norfolk  girls  were  all  big  and  healthy,  and 
of  long  and  well-covered  limbs,  with  the  exception 
of  Anne,  the  youngest.  She  had  the  family  neat- 
ness of  build  but  on  a  smaller  scale,  and  the  family 
complexion  too,  so  far  as  the  fineness  of  the  tex- 
ture of  her  skin  went,  but  while  the  others  had 
glowing  colours  she  was  pale.  Where  her  sisters 
were  assertive  she  was  retiring.  She  was  sensitive 
and  observant.  She  saw,  indeed,  far  too  deeply  into 
the  heart  and  into  the  meaning  of  things  for  her 
own  comfort.  Under  different  conditions  —  had 


146         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

she,  for  example,  been  an  only  child  —  it  is  not 
improbable  that  she  would  have  been  morbid,  and 
possibly  hysterical,  but  the  combined  influences  of 
her  five  robuster  sisters  kept  her  from  any  pro- 
longed brooding.  She  was  not  thought  pretty  at 
home,  partly  of  course  because  the  others  were  so 
much  bolder  in  outline  and  colouring ;  but  in  the 
studios  to  which  her  art  education  took  her  she 
received  a  homage  which  satisfied  her,  and  which 
told  her  that  her  looks  in  the  house  in  Sloane 
Street  were  not  appreciated  merely  because  they 
were  not  understood. 

"  If  they  knew,"  she  said  sometimes  to  herself, 
with  an  indrawing  of  her  breath. 

She  seldom  went  with  her  sisters  into  the  society 
which  they  loved.  She  had  her  own  friends  in  such 
impossible  parts  of  London  as  West  Kensington  and 
Regent's  Park  and  Maida  Vale,  and  she  dressed 
in  a  way  that  seemed  odd  to  all  Pilotell-girls. 
Painting  occupied  most  of  her  time,  but  at  this 
period  her  thoughts  were  inclined  to  wander.  She 
worked  patiently,  and  she  had  already  been  re- 
warded by  the  hanging  of  two  of  her  pictures  at 
minor  exhibitions  —  a  reward  that  was  enhanced 
in  each  case  by  the  sale  of  the  painting. 

She  was  the  reading  one  of  the  family,  and  the 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         147 

bookshelves  of  her  little  bedroom  showed  a  curious 
variety  of  literature.  Possibly  the  fact  that  stout 
Mrs.  Norfolk  never  troubled  her  head  at  all  as  to 
what  her  girls  put  into  theirs  did  not  tend  to  make 
this  variety  less  various.  Anne's  own  taste  was  for 
the  most  part  her  protection.  Indeed  so  little  train- 
ing had  fallen  to  the  share  of  the  Miss  Norfolks, 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  wonder  to  all  who  knew 
their  mother  that  they  should  have  turned  out  so 
well.  For  they  were  good  girls,  from  the  advanced 
Harry,  who  liked  occasionally  to  affect  outrageous- 
ness,  to  the  quiet  Anne. 

"Anne,"  said  Netty,  addressing  her  sisters,  "is 
unusually  brilliant  this  morning." 

"  What  is  it,  Anne  ?  "  said  Ethel. 

"  Cheer  up,  Anne,"  said  Harry. 

"Tell  us  all  about  it,  Anne,"  said  Netty.— 
"Really,"  she  added,  in  parenthesis,  "making 
dresses  for  mamma  becomes  more  difficult  every 
year.  If  things  go  on  like  this  her  waist  will  soon 
be  over  the  top  of  her  head.  It  is  an  awful  look- 
out for  us,  girls.  Mamma  was  once  as  slight  as 
Anne.  Anne,  your  artists  won't  want  to  paint  you 
if  you  become  bulky." 

Mrs.  Norfolk  derived  in  her  good-tempered  way 
so  much  amusement  from  her  own  increasing  size, 


148         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

that  to  jest  upon  the  subject  was  legitimate  in 
Sloane  Street. 

Anne  went  on  quietly  with  her  work,  but  her 
needle  trembled.  The  sunlight  falling  on  her  pale 
hair  lit  it  up  and  showed  its  fineness.  It  was  thick 
and  dry,  but  shining,  and  she  dressed  it  very  sim- 
ply. Her  eyes  were  grey  and  large.  Behind  her 
was  the  blue  background  of  the  paper  of  the  wall, 
and  on  this  the  sun  struck  too,  throwing  her 
shadow  upon  it  so  definitely  in  profile  that  her 
eyelashes  were  given  as  in  a  silhouette. 

Miss  Norfolk,  looking  at  her  young  sister  sitting 
thus,  and  bending  over  her  work  in  the  winter 
sunlight,  came  at  that  moment  near  to  understand- 
ing why  it  was  Anne  —  and  not  herself,  nor  Ethel, 
nor  Netty,  nor  Barbara  and  Helen,  the  twins — who 
on  three  occasions  had  been  begged  by  painters  of 
note  to  sit  to  them. 

Mrs.  Norfolk,  though  she  was  really  fond  of  her 
youngest  daughter,  always  said  apologetically 
and  ungrammatically  that  it  was  because  Anne 
knew  "  those  sort "  of  people. 

But  Miss  Norfolk,  I  say,  realized  at  this  mo- 
ment that  that  was  not  perhaps  altogether  the 
reason. 

"  We,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  the  result  of  her 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         149 

observation,  "we — and  particularly  myself  —  are 
creatures  of  the  moment.  If  we  did  n't  change,  and 
keep  ourselves  what  they  call  at  the  Gaiety  up  to 
date,  we  should  be  out  of  fashion  next  year,  But 
Anne  is  somehow  permanent  —  as  a  —  as  a  Rom- 
ney  is  permanent." 

Miss  Norfolk  paused  before  the  painter's  name, 
to  find  in  her  very  superficial  knowledge  of  art  or 
artists  one  that  should  fit  the  case.  She  was  more 
happy  in  the  example  that  came  to  her  than  per- 
haps she  altogether  knew. 

A  sudden  recollection  of  Araby  Ruthven  told 
her  that  much  the  same  thing  applied  to  her  also, 
and,  while  she  wondered  whether  there  was  any- 
thing in  common  between  the  two  girls,  she  con- 
tinued almost  unconsciously  to  gaze  at  Anne. 

Netty,  idle  now,  and  in  a  mood  for  mischief, 
with  a  recurrent  use  of  the  Christian  name  which 
experience  had  taught  her  was  a  source  of  almost 
certain  irritation  to  its  owner — any  Christian  name 
and  any  owner  —  continued  to  exhort  Anne  to  be 
of  good  cheer. 

"Bear  up,  Anne,"  she  said,  "bear  up.  Remem- 
ber the  comfortable  words  of  your  elder  sister 
Harry,  that  any  woman  with  patience  and  tact, 
especially  tact,  can  marry  any  man.  She  hasn't 


150         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

quite  succeeded  herself,  you  know,  Anne.  But 
she  will  in  good  time,  Anne;  and  so  will  you, 
Anne,  if  you  try,  Anne.  Any  woman,  any  man, 
Anne." 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Anne!" 

"Yes,  Netty." 

"Are  you  cross?" 

"  Not  yet,  Netty." 

"Then  I'll  make  you,"  said  Netty.  "What  do 
you  think  I  've  found  out,  girls  ?  " 

Anne  gave  her  sister  an  agonized  look.  But 
Netty  in  her  present  mood  was  adamant. 

"Anne's  in  love,"  said  Netty  —  "in  love  with 
Dennis  Leigh." 

It  was  Miss  Norfolk  who  caught  her  breath. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AND  the  cause  of  this  sudden  and  small  sign  of 
possible  feeling  upon  the  part  of  Miss  Norfolk  was 
the  mention  of  the  name  of  a  young  barrister  with 
little  money  and  no  briefs. 

He  shared  chambers  with  an  equally  impecuni- 
ous friend,  in  Testament  Buildings  in  the  Temple, 
and  here  the  two  young  men  feasted  and  fasted  as 
circumstances  permitted  or  ordained. 

Dennis  had  an  allowance  of  a  hundred  a  year 
from  an  uncle,  who  stated  definitely  that  this  was 
all  that  he  could  do  for  him,  and  the  friend  had 
scarcely  as  much.  A  joint  income  of  barely  two 
hundred  a  year  was,  then,  all  that  was  assured  to 
a  pair  of  boisterous  fellows  full  of  life  and  the  love 
of  it. 

Dennis  hated  London  and  damned  it  roundly. 
He  wanted  to  hunt,  and  to  shoot,  and  to  fish,  and 
to  live  in  the  open  air. 

Abbot,  the  friend,  said,  "Oh,  damn  y'r  hunting, 
and  y'r  shooting,  and  y'r  fishing,  and  y'r  open  air ; 
London  's  not  a  bad  sort  of  place  all  round,  if 
you  've  enough  to  eat  and  especially  drink,  and 


152         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

can  afford  a  good  tailor,  and  can  take  your  amuse- 
ments as  amusements,  without  having  to  sit  up 
half  the  night  to  write  about  them  afterwards." 

For  these  unhappy  young  men  trod  the  stony 
byways  of  journalism,  and  earned  there,  by  dint 
of  a  work  that  was  only  made  tolerable  by  the 
fact  that  it  brought  in  its  train  such  advantages  as 
a  free  entry  into  theatres  and  the  like,  a  sum  suffi- 
cient to  keep  them.  Dennis  was  clean-shaven,  as 
became  his  would-be  calling,  and  he  had  a  profile 
that  delighted  you,  but  a  full-face  that  was  disap- 
pointing. He  was  an  Oxford  man,  by  the  kindness 
of  the  uncle,  and  he  looked  back  to  his  three  years 
there  as  the  happiest  in  his  life. 

He  was  clever  enough  ;  took  to  writing ;  and 
wrote  well  in  a  manner  that  he  despised.  He  took 
to  it  not  because  he  liked  it,  but  as  a  means  of  add- 
ing to  his  very  slender  income.  He  knew  that  he 
was  made  for  things  better  than  two  weekly  Lon- 
don letters,  which  brought  him  in  a  pound  apiece, 
a  certain  amount  of  hurried  literary  criticism,  and 
such  dramatic  press  work  as  Abbot,  whose  particular 
line  was  the  theatre  and  all  that  appertained  to 
it,  handed  over  to  him.  He  cursed  London  as  the 
home  of  his  fettered  life. 

Then  there  came  a  day  when  London  under- 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         153 

went  a  change  for  him.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say 
exactly  why  he  succumbed  to  the  charms  of  Ab- 
bot's cousin,  Miss  Norfolk.  It  was  a  year  now  since 
that  winter  day  when  there  was  a  laughing  and 
a  talking  on  the  staircase  of  Testament  Buildings, 
followed  by  a  knocking  at  the  joint  door  of  Abbot 
and  Leigh. 

It  was  Leigh  who  opened  it.  Netty  nudged  Ethel 
(Dennis  saw  her),  and  Miss  Norfolk,  in  a  voice  that 
somehow  conveyed  to  the  young  barrister  that  at 
the  end  of  an  argument  she  had  been  deputed 
spokeswoman,  asked  whether  Mr.  Abbot  was  at 
home. 

Mr.  Abbot  was  at  home.  The  girls  walked  in 
with  demureness.  Leigh  saw  Netty  nudge  Ethel 
again.  Miss  Norfolk  was  preternaturally  solemn, 
but  Dennis  had  a  conviction  that  she  wanted  to 
laugh.  She  did  when  presently  Abbot  had  received 
his  cousins  and  introduced  his  friend  to  them. 

"  We  've  often  threatened  you  with  a  visit,"  said 
Miss  Norfolk,  "  and  to-day  mamma  took  the  twins 
to  an  '  at  home '  somewhere,  and  Anne  was  paint- 
ing, and  Ethel  and  Netty  and  I  were  so  dull  —  oh, 
do  let  me  have  the  cup  without  a  handle — that 
when  Ethel  proposed — " 

"I  didn't,"  said  Ethel. 


154         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"Well  then,  Netty  —  " 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Netty. 

"  Well,  when  /  proposed  —  yes,  and  sugar, 
please,  thank  you,  Mr.  Leigh  —  proposed  beard- 
ing you  in  your  den,  Jimmy,  they  all  jumped  at  it, 
and  here  we  are.  And  is  that  where  you  keep 
your  briefs — in  that  cupboard  ?  Is  it  big  enough  ? 
And  what  a  lovely  loaf !  Oh,  and  jam !  And  do 
you  receive  your  clients  here?  —  do  you  call  them 
clients  ?  And  shall  we  be  taken  for  clients  ?  They  '11 
think  we  are  breach  of  promise  girls." 

"So  this  is  really  the  Temple,"  said  Ethel.  "I 
thought  it  would  have  been  dustier." 

"  But  you  have  laundresses,  who  keep  it  clean 
for  you,  haven't  you?"  said  Netty,  "and  you 
marry  their  daughter  in  the  third  act." 

"  Look  at  all  their  papers,"  said  Miss  Norfolk, 
taking  up  a  copy  of  the  "Bachelor,"  to  which 
Dennis  was  an  occasional  contributor.  "  The 
'Bachelor,'  the  'Emu/  the  'Lamp,'  the  'Gun.'" 
She  ran  through  a  few  of  the  names  of  journals  that 
lay  upon  the  table. 

"  I  had  no  idea  you  had  time  for  anything  so 
interesting.  I  thought  there  would  only  be  dread- 
ful law  papers  like  —  " 

" '  The  Police  News/  "  said  Netty.  She  had  once 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         155 

seen  the  sheet  in  a  small  news-agent's  in  a  back 
street. 

Abbot  asked  Leigh  to  say  something  that  should 
uphold  the  dignity  of  the  law. 

This  tea-party  was  the  first  of  many.  Abbot, 
who  often  dined  in  Sloane  Street,  was  asked  to 
bring  Dennis.  He  went.  Netty  and  Ethel  amused 
him;  to  the  twins  he  was  indifferent;  Anne,  look- 
ing at  him  shyly,  interested  him;  but  of  Miss 
Norfolk  he  carried  back  to  the  Temple  an  impres- 
sion that  made  him  happy  and  miserable. 

Abbot  said,  — 

"  Harry  Norfolk  'is  a  good-looking  girl,  old  boy, 
but  don't  you  singe  your  precious  wings  there.  If 
she  wasn't  so  young,  Dennis,  I  should  call  her  a 
bit  of  an  old  soldier." 

"  Get  out,"  said  Leigh,  morosely. 

"  And  my  good  aunt  is  a  schemer  if  ever  there 
was  one,"  added  Abbot,  sententiously. 

Dennis  found  London  growing  dear  to  him. 
It  held  Sloane  Street,  and  Sloane  Street  held  his 
divinity.  He  placed  Miss  Norfolk  possibly  upon  a 
pedestal  that  was  unreasonably  high.  He  looked 
forward  to  her  visits  to  the  Temple  and  to  his 
own  to  Sloane  Street.  In  the  intervals  he  worked 
hard.  Sometimes  when  he  saw  her,  he  found  Miss 


156         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Norfolk's  eyes  upon  him,  and  afterwards  he  liked 
to  think  of  that.  Sometimes  it  helped  him,  some- 
times it  hindered. 

In  the  year  that  succeeded  the  making  of  her 
acquaintance,  his  pen  brought  him  in  two  hundred 
pounds.  Putting  aside  the  fixed  remuneration  for 
his  two  London  letters,  the  rest  had  come  in  small 
sums  ranging  from  half  a  guinea  to  five  pounds. 
His  heart  sank  within  him  when  he  realized  what 
labour  this  had  cost  him,  and  that  this  year  had  been, 
as  years  go,  a  very  good  year.  Abbot  had  not 
done  so  well,  but  Abbot  did  not  mind  drifting,  and 
Dennis  did ;  Abbot  lived  in  the  present,  Dennis 
had  begun  to  face  the  future.  He  was  elated  and 
despondent  by  turns.  Life  seemed  to  him  a  good 
thing,  and  life  seemed  to  him  a  curse.  And  Harry 
Norfolk  looked  at  him  curiously  when  she  thought 
that  he  did  not  see  her,  and  distantly  at  other 
times.  She  asked  Abbot  many  questions  about 
him. 

"  The  best  chap  that  ever  lived/'  said  Abbot. 

He  was  devoted  to  his  friend  in  a  brusque  and 
undemonstrative  sort  of  way,  and  behind  his  back 
he  liked  to  sing  his  praises. 

"And  he  is  an  orphan,  didn't  you  say?"  asked 
Miss  Norfolk. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         157 

She  knew  that  he  had  not  said  so,  but  she 
wished  for  information. 

"An  only  son  and  an  orphan,"  replied  her  cousin. 

Miss  Norfolk,  thinking  of  the  Norfolk  dowry 
that  had  to  be  split  up  into  six,  said  that  it  was 
something  to  be  an  only  anything  —  son  or 
daughter. 

"  Has  n't  made  much  difference  in  his  case," 
said  Abbot.  " That's  the  devil  of  it.  There  was 
nothing  to  leave.  He  has  a  rich  uncle,  who  put 
him  generously  to  Oxford,  and  makes  him  now  a 
small  allowance." 

"The  same  thing,"  said  Miss  Norfolk. 

"It  might  be,"  agreed  Abbot,  "  but  that  the 
uncle,  an  old  Johnny  of  sixty,  has  married  a  young 
wife,  and  has  now  a  son  of  his  own." 

"How  annoying!"  said  Harry. 

She  could  not  have  said  less  if  she  had  dropped 
her  prayer-book  on  the  wood  pavement  of  Sloane 
Street,  or  pricked  her  finger,  or  knocked  her  white 
elbow  ;  but  she  set  her  teeth  after  she  had  said  it 
and  she  sighed.  Abbot  remarked  nothing.  He  felt 
vaguely  that  that  which  he  had  told  his  cousin  of 
his  friend  was  mischief  to  the  friend. 

"And  there,"  he  said  to  himself  in  an  habitual 
expression,  "  is  the  devil  of  it." 


158         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Miss  Norfolk  often  set  her  teeth  after  that,  and 
looked  at  herself  in  the  glass  to  note  the  tragedy 
of  her  expression.  She  was  very  much  interested 
in  finding  that  she  had  such  feelings  as  she  had 
read  of  in  books.  Sometimes,  when  she  was  not 
acting  to  an  audience  of  a  looking-glass  with  her- 
self in  it,  her  face  wore  a  look  that  was  very  hope- 
less, and  that  was  somehow  sincere  enough  to 
show  that  there  was  in  truth  a  certain  depth  in  the 
emotions  the  outward  expression  of  which  she 
liked  to  counterfeit. 

She  met  Hartford.  She  was  more  shrewd  and 
worldly-wise  than  ever,  robbed  herself  designedly 
of  much  of  the  freshness  of  her  youth  by  acquiring, 
or  pretending  to,  a  knowledge  of  life  that  may 
have  been  harmless  in  its  results,  but  that  amazed 
such  less  modern  girls  as  Araby;  and  she  went 
more  seldom  to  the  Temple,  and  looked  more  dis- 
tantly at  Dennis. 

He  did  not  fail  to  observe  the  change.  It  made 
him  acutely  miserable.  Abbot  was  very  sorry  for 
him,  but  to  tell  him  that  Miss  Norfolk  (in  her 
cousin's  opinion)  was  not  worth  his  thought  of  her 
would  not  have  seemed  to  Dennis  kind  or  friendly 
comfort.  He  was  more  silent,  and  he  worked  des- 
perately by  fits  and  starts,  with  intervals  during 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         159 

which  he  cursed  his  fate  and  flung  his  pen  to  an 
end  of  the  room  —  whither  he  would  presently 
follow  it  to  pick  it  up  apologetically.  Then  the 
whole  thing  struck  him  as  rather  ludicrous,  and 
he  laughed  at  himself. 

Miss  Norfolk  and  Ethel  had  gone,  as  we  know, 
to  Lady  George  AthoFs  dance,  and  it  was  to  keep 
themselves  fresh  for  this  that  they  threw  up  an 
engagement  to  have  tea  with  the  two  young  bar- 
risters in  Testament  Buildings. 

"  Anne,  you  must  go  instead  of  me,"  said  Miss 
Norfolk.  "  They  asked  three  of  us,  and  Netty  and 
Barbara  are  going." 

Anne  drew  back. 

"  You  ought  to  go  yourself,  Harry,"  she  said, 
timidly.  "You  know  you  promised,  and  —  they 
will  be  awfully  disappointed." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  hardly,  "  all  engage- 
ments are  subject  to  the  turning  up  of  something 
better  afterwards." 

"You're  unjust  —  to  yourself,"  said  Anne. 

Miss  Norfolk  made  as  if  she  would  have  retorted 
impatiently,  but  she  did  not. 

"You  won't  expect  justice  even  from  yourself 
when  you  reach  my  age,  Anne,"  she  said,  with  a 
sigh. 


160         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Anne  still  demurred  about  going. 

"Why  don't  you  want  to  go?"  asked  Netty, 
who  had  not  then  definitely  made  her  discovery. 
"  Don't  you  like  Jimmy  and  Mr.  Leigh  ?  " 

Anne  coloured  and  made  an  excuse.  She  wanted 
to  work  at  a  picture. 

"  Rot,"  said  Netty,  robustly. 

In  the  end  Anne  gave  way.  She  had  often  been 
before  to  the  chambers  in  the  Temple,  but  of  late, 
with  the  wandering  of  her  thoughts,  reasons  had 
been  made  plain  to  her  why  she  should  go  there 
as  little  as  possible.  Anne,  you  see,  was  observant. 

She  had  still  a  heightened  colour  when  she  fol- 
lowed her  sisters,  Netty  and  Barbara,  into  the  om- 
nibus, which,  living  in  a  thoroughfare  as  they  did, 
they  were  able  to  stop  at  their  own  door. 

"  Where 's  Harry  ?  "  asked  Abbot,  when  the  girls 
presented  themselves  at  his  chambers. 

Netty  made  a  long  and  glib  statement  of  plaus- 
ible excuse.  Anne  saw  the  face  of  Dennis  fall,  and 
she  turned  away  her  head. 

"  Too  bad  of  Harry,"  said  Abbot.  "  Tell  her,  with 
my  love,  Netty,  that  her  regrets  are  very  pretty, 
but  that  I  am  quite  sure  she  could  have  come  if  she 
had  liked." 

The  party  settled  themselves  round  the  fire.  A 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         161 

kettle  was  singing  merrily,  and  presently  an  issue 
of  steam  came  from  its  spout.  Anne  helped  Dennis 
to  make  the  tea — holding  the  brown  earthenware 
teapot  in  one  hand,  and  the  lid  of  it  in  the  other, 
while  he  poured  in  the  boiling  water,  which  made 
a  delicious  but  indescribable  sound. 

He  put  down  the  kettle  and  took  the  teapot  from 
her,  barely  thanking  her.  His  eyes  were  holden  at 
this  time. 

She  began  methodically  to  cut  bread  for  toast- 
ing. Netty  talked  so  much  that  she  could  do  no- 
thing else,  and  to  have  expected  Barbara  to  help 
would  have  been  to  expect  the  unlikely.  The  twins 
had  eyes  with  heavy  lids  and  did  nothing  for 
themselves.  Their  indolence,  which  was  partly 
natural  and  partly  affected,  had  a  real  and  physical 
expression  in  their  cast  of  face.  They  spoke  slowly 
with  deep  voices.  They  were  like  each  other  in 
appearance,  and  Barbara  was  representative.  Their 
sloth  was  in  Sloane  Street  pronounced  to  suit  their 
type  of  beauty,  and  they  were  exempted  from  many 
of  those  small  duties  which  devolved  upon  the 
others. 

Anne  and  Jimmy  knelt  in  front  of  the  fire  and 
made  toast ;  Netty  offered  to  help  but  did  not 
move.  Barbara  looked  on  lazily  and  did  nothing. 


162         TIME  AND   THE  WOMAN 

Dennis  was  silent.  After  he  had  placed  the  teapot 
on  the  hob  he  sat  down.  Anne  saw  the  grimness 
of  his  expression.  It  relaxed  presently,  and  his  nor- 
mal geniality  asserted  itself.  To  mope  for  long  was 
foreign  to  his  nature. 

Abbot  and  Anne  moved  after  a  time  from  their 
kneeling  positions.  Their  faces  glowed  from  the 
heat  of  the  fire,  and  Anne's  eyes  sparkled. 

"We've  done  our  share,  Anne,"  said  Jimmy. 
"  Some  of  the  others  must  take  a  turn  next." 

"  I  'm  sure  you  have  made  plenty  of  toast,"  said 
the  lazy  Barbara.  She  sniffed  the  air  luxuriously. 
"  How  good  it  smells  ! " 

She  watched  Dennis,  who  proceeded  to  butter 
it.  Anne  took  off  her  hat  and  stood  at  the  table. 
The  firelight  burnished  her  shining  hair. 

"  Why,  you  have  got  a  piano,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. 

"  I  have  been  wondering  what  made  the  room 
look  different  from  usual,"  said  Netty.  "  When  did 
you  get  it,  Jimmy?" 

"  Leigh's  piano,  not  mine,"  said  Abbot.  "  Den- 
nis, hurry  up,  we  all  want  our  tea." 

Anne  went  over  to  the  piano. 

"  Yes,  try  it,  Miss  Norfolk,"  said  Dennis,  but 
Barbara  protested. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         163 

"  After  we  've  had  some  tea,"  she  said,  in  the 
slow  and  deep  voice  that  gave  to  so  many  trite 
or  commonplace  things  a  tone  of  tragedy.  The 
twins'  voices  were  somewhat  wasted  upon  them. 

Barbara  made  a  hearty  meal,  slowly.  Netty 
talked,  and  for  some  reason  or  other  observed 
Anne,  who  was  silent.  Anne  ate  little. 

"Now,"  said  Leigh,  when  at  last  Barbara  had 
refused  anything  more,  and  the  toast  had  disap- 
peared from  the  plate,  "now  will  you  try  the 
piano  ?  " 

Anne  rose  at  once.  She  did  not  speak,  and  she 
began  Chopin's  Nocturne  in  E  flat.  Dennis  had 
followed  her  to  the  piano.  He  stood  beside  it  as 
she  played.  She  grew  very  pale.  After  a  time  the 
strain  of  the  knowledge  that  his  eyes  were  upon 
her  became  too  severe,  and  she  looked  up.  He  was 
looking  at  her  steadily,  but  she  scarcely  thought 
that  he  saw  hen  She  played  the  piece  to  the 
end. 

Netty,  the  mischievous,  continued  to  watch  her, 
drawing  the  while  her  own  conclusions. 

Dennis,  thinking  of  Harry  Norfolk,  at  whose 
suggestion  he  had  acquired  the  piano,  was  deeply 
moved  by  the  music.  He  said  little.  Abbot  knew 
the  effect  which  music  had  upon  him,  and  hastened 


164         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

in  a  boisterous  way  to  demand  something  less 
classic. 

"  Something  down  to  our  level,  Anne.  The  Pas 
de  what-you-call-it.  Here,  Netty,  you  and  I  will 
hop  round." 

Anne  complied  at  once.  She  was  a  little  bit 
alarmed  by  the  passion  which  her  playing  had 
called  up  into  Leigh's  face,  and  it  was  a  relief  to 
rattle  from  the  notes  the  swinging  tune  that  took 
London. 

Abbot  pushed  the  table  out  of  the  way,  and 
caught  Netty  by  the  hand.  The  two  skipped  round, 
Netty's  neat  feet  taking  steps  scarcely  less  precise 
than  those  of  the  dancing-girls  across  the  street. 
The  air  and  the  motion  were  intoxicating.  The 
indolent  Barbara  jumped  up  and  called  upon 
Dennis  to  dance.  Then  these  four,  full  of  their 
youth,  and  with  spirits  that  rose  in  answer  to  the 
exuberance  of  the  tune,  hopped  round  till  they 
were  out  of  breath. 

When  they  were  at  last  sitting  in  different  parts 
of  the  room,  and  fanning  themselves  with  their 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  or  with  newspapers,  Anne 
left  the  piano. 

Barbara  said  it  was  time  to  go,  and  did  not 
move.  Netty  said  that  she  supposed  so  too,  but 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         165 

kept  her  place.  Abbot  and  Leigh  protested  that 
there  was  no  hurry. 

"  You  must  tell  Harry,"  said  Abbot,  "  that  we 
have  had  our  ball  this  afternoon." 

Anne  looked  at  Dennis  apprehensively,  and 
then  she  took  up  the  current  copy  of  the  "  Bach- 
elor," which  chanced  to  be  lying  on  the  table.  She 
looked  for  such  articles  as  bore  the  initials  D.  L. 
Her  eyes  fell  upon  some  verses.  They  were  un- 
signed. Dennis  happened  to  be  near  her  as  she 
read  them.  They  were  a  love  song.  She  looked 
from  them  to  Dennis,  and  knew  that  he  had  writ- 
ten them.  Netty  read  them  over  her  shoulder  and 
guessed  the  same  thing,  and  when  that  night  she 
found  Anne  with  a  copy  of  the  paper  which  she 
had  bought,  crying  over  them  in  her  own  room, 
she  made  the  discovery  which  she  boldly  pro- 
claimed the  following  day. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ARABY  had  an  uneventful  and  cold  journey,  during 
which  she  read  when  she  was  tired  of  looking  out 
at  the  white  country,  and  looked  out  again  at  the 
snow  when  she  was  tired  of  reading.  She  cried  too 
a  little  when  she  had  the  carriage  to  herself,  and 
thoughts  of  Gerald  assailed  her. 

The  guard  came  at  intervals  and  saw  that  she 
was  comfortable.  He  brought  sandwiches  to  her, 
and  he  had  the  foot-warmer  changed  for  her.  She 
slept  sometimes  and  she  dreamed  disturbingly. 
There  was  little  indeed  to  distract  her.  She  had 
fellow-travellers  intermittently,  but  none  of  them 
aroused  in  her  the  smallest  interest.  A  large  woman 
with  an  infinitesimal  dog  with  an  aggressively 
shrill  bark  bored  her.  She  speculated  a  little,  but 
with  no  keenness,  as  to  a  young  couple  with  new 
luggage.  Three  old  men  with  black  bands  on  their 
hats  and  black  gloves  appeared  to  have  made 
up  a  party  to  go  to  a  funeral.  They  called  it  the 
"interment,"  and  they  talked  about  it  a  good 
deal,  and  Araby  was  relieved  when  they  left  the 
carriage. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         167 

The  evening  closed  in.  Lights  occasionally  Sotted 
the  white  country.  Fields  and  hedges  and  trees 
looked  desolate.  The  cold  increased,  and  after  a 
time  the  damp  upon  the  windows  froze  itself  into 
patterns  of  ferns  and  leaves  which  effectually  ob- 
scured the  passing  landscape. 

Araby  was  asleep  at  the  moment  of  the  train's 
arrival  at  the  station  for  Eccram,  and  she  started 
to  her  feet  as  the  lights  flashed  past  the  carriage 
windows.  She  was  stiff  and  cold,  and  for  once  the 
sight  of  the  familiar  platform  awoke  in  her  no  feel- 
ings of  welcome  recognition.  The  Eccram  carriage 
was  waiting  for  her.  The  coachman  grinned  all 
over  his  face  as  he  touched  his  hat  and  respectfully 
greeted  her. 

During  the  drive  to  the  house  Araby  tried  hard 
to  experience  some  of  the  joy  with  which  in  thought 
she  had  associated  a  return  to  the  home  of  her 
childhood.  She  knew  every  yard  of  the  road,  and 
in  the  whiteness  of  the  winter  night  she  distin- 
guished all  the  old  landmarks.  It  was  useless.  Her 
heart  was  in  London,  and  she  wondered  how  she 
should  get  through  her  days. 

"  It  will  be  all  right  when  I  see  Aunt  Laura  and 
Aunt  Clara,"  she  told  herself. 

They  met  her  as  she  expected  in  the  hall.  The 


168         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

welcome  was  so  genuine  and  so  warm  that  some- 
thing of  comfort  was  conveyed  to  her.  They  were 
gaunt  women  with  good  hearts  and  high  cheek- 
bones. Neither  of  them  looked  as  if  she  had  ever 
been  young.  Araby,  indeed,  who  had  lived  with 
them  from  her  earliest  days,  had  never  known 
them  to  change.  They  were  examples  of  permanent 
middle  age.  They  dressed  in  a  way  that  denoted  a 
certain  type  of  feminine  mind,  following  the  fash- 
ions with  timidity  and  at  a  respectful  distance. 

Like  a  soldier  under  arrest  Araby  was  escorted 
between  them  into  the  dining-room,  where  the  huge 
fire  that  threw  shafts  of  flickering  light  upon  the 
walls  made  her  suddenly  conscious  of  how  cold 
she  was  physically.  She  ran  to  the  hearth  and  knelt 
down  upon  the  fur  rug  and  stretched  out  her  hands 
to  the  blaze.  The  warmth  and  the  brightness 
cheered  her.  She  felt  a  wish  to  purr  like  the  cat 
that  lay  curled  up  on  the  bearskin  beside  her.  In- 
cidentally she  realized  the  want  of  that  form  of 
exquisite  expression. 

The  aunts  were  talking  to  her  the  while  singly 
and  in  chorus.  Would  she  like  to  go  to  her  room 
and  take  off  her  coat  and  her  hat  before  her  supper 
or  afterwards? 

She  roused  herself  with  an  effort  The  glow  of 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         169 

the  hearth,  which  made  her  fingers  to  tingle  deli- 
ciously,  was  lulling  her  to  a  delightful  state  of 
languor.  London  with  all  that  it  held  was  forgotten 
in  the  enchantment  of  pleasant  bodily  sensation. 
The  world  was  herself,  the  fire,  and  the  purring 
cat.  She  laid  her  face  luxuriously  for  a  moment 
against  the  animal's  coat.  It  was  soft,  thick,  silky, 
and  hot.  Then  she  rose  to  her  feet. 

"The  old  room?"  she  said.  "My  little  blue 
room  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dear.  Your  own  room.  We  thought  you 
would  like  that.  It  is  just  as  you  left  it." 

Simultaneously  the  eyes  of  the  aunts  filled  with 
tears.  No  one  but  they  themselves  knew  what  it 
had  been  to  them  to  lose  Araby. 

"  I  hope  you  are  a  little  bit  glad  to  come  back," 
one  of  them  said. 

Araby 's  heart  smote  her.  She  threw  her  arms 
round  the  speaker's  neck. 

"  Glad ! "  she  said,  "  glad  I  Oh,  my  dear  Aunt 
Laura,  don't  you  know  that  I  am  glad  ?" 

When  she  had  gone  up  to  her  room  the  two 
ladies  were  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Each  waited 
for  the  other  to  speak.  Laura,  the  younger,  at  last 
said,  — 

"Well?" 


170         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

That  loosed  her  sister's  tongue. 

"  Did  you  think  her  pale?  —  paler  than  she  used 
to  be?" 

"  Her  journey  .  .  .  the  cold  —  " 

"  Would  account  for  that  partly.  Perhaps.  Yes." 

There  was  silence  again.  Miss  Wootton  changed 
her  position  somewhat,  and  opened  her  mouth  to 
speak.  Her  sister  looked  at  her,  and  she  closed  her 
lips. 

The  butler  came  in  to  know  whether  he  should 
bring  in  Araby's  supper. 

"We  will  ring,"  said  Miss  Wootton.  "Miss 
Araby  has  gone  to  her  room." 

The  servant  withdrew,  and  there  was  again 
silence. 

"She  is  as  pretty  as  ever,"  said  Miss  Laura 
then.  "  Prettier.  She  has  filled  out.  She  is  no  longer 
a  child.  Perhaps  that  is  it." 

"  Is  what,  Laura  ?  Do  you  see  any  alteration  in 
her?" 

"  Yes,  I  do." 

The  two  sisters  exchanged  glances,  and  there 
was  again  silence.  Miss  Wootton  broke  it. 

"Did  you  —  did  you  miss  something  from  her 
manner,  Laura?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  say  that.  But  there  is  some 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         171 

change.  You  see  it  yourself,  Clara.  Do  you  think 
that  she  is  n't  happy  ?  " 

"What  are  you  thinking,  Laura?  Do  speak 
straight  out.  You  are  beating  about  the  bush." 

"  We  are  thinking  the  same  thing,"  said  Miss 
Laura  then,  "  you  and  I ;  we  are  both  thinking 
the  same  thing.  We  are  wondering  whether  Cor- 
bet's wife  is  a  good  mother." 

"  Hush,"  said  Miss  Wootton,  "hush!" 

Miss  Laura  gave  her  head  a  little  toss,  and  in 
the  silence  that  ensued,  during  which  the  sisters 
sat  staring  into  the  fire,  Araby  came  into  the  room. 
She  went  over  and  knelt  on  the  rug  between 
them,  and  each  took  possession  of  one  of  her 
hands. 

She  began  to  know  now  that  she  was  hungry, 
and  when  she  was  comfortably  seated  at  the  table, 
she  found  herself  able  to  do  full  justice  to  the  hot 
and  tempting  dishes  that  had  been  prepared  for 
her.  The  food  of  which  she  had  been  really  in 
need  after  her  cold  journey,  and  perhaps  the  port 
which  her  aunts  insisted  that  she  should  drink,  did 
much  to  raise  her  spirits.  After  Araby  was  re- 
freshed the  Miss  Woottons  led  her  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

This  was  a  room  which  belonged  to  the  worsted- 


172         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

work  period.  Here  they  talked  till  the  striking  of 
a  clock  warned  them  of  the  lateness  of  the  hour ; 
and  when  the  three  parted  for  the  night,  the  aunts 
wondered  whether  after  all  they  might  not  have 
been  mistaken  in  ascribing  any  change  to  the  girl 
who  had  left  them,  and  had  now  for  a  time  returned 
to  them. 

But  long  after  their  eyes  had  closed  in  sleep 
Araby  sat  before  the  fire  in  her  room  and  thought. 
Sometimes  as  she  looked  round  the  familiar  blue 
walls,  and  the  hundred  well-known  objects  about 
her,  she  felt  as  if  she  had  never  been  away  from 
Eccram  in  her  life,  and  that  London  and  her  mother 
and  —  and  other  people,  must  belong  to  a  dream 
from  which  she  had  just  awoke.  Then,  as  she  looked, 
she  found  the  pictures  which  she  had  once  admired 
crude  and  philistine,  and  she  contrasted  the  com- 
fortable but  ugly  worsted-work  drawing-room  with 
the  rooms  in  Primate  Street,  and  with  such  other 
modern  rooms  as  she  had  seen  in  London,  and  she 
felt  that,  like  Eve,  she  had  eaten  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge  of  good  and  evil,  and  that  for  her  the 
old  conditions  were  impossible.  She  shuddered  as 
she  looked  at  the  books  on  her  shelves,  at  an  illu- 
mination in  an  Oxford  frame  that  hung  over  her 
bed. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         173 

She  went  to  the  window  and  drew  aside  the  cur- 
tains. The  trees  were  etched  against  the  white  of 
the  snow  in  firm  black  lines.  Araby  could  see 
single  twigs.  She  could  see  the  tower  of  Eccram 
Church,  and  near  it  the  gables  of  the  Vicarage.  She 
thought  of  Herbert  Pine,  and  wondered  whether 
he  was  at  home  ;  and  then  she  drifted  back  upon 
attendant  memories  connected  with  skating,  to 
London  and  to  Gerald,  and  to  her  mother  and  to 
her  own  unhappiness.  They  were  dancing  now  in 
Barn  Street.  Who  was  dancing  with  Gerald  ?  she 
wondered.  What  were  the  waltzes  that  would  be 
played  ?  She  threw  herself  with  intenseness  of  pur- 
pose into  an  attempt  to  realize  the  night  as  it  was 
passing  at  the  George  Athols'.  She  lived  through 
a  part  of  this  ball  in  imagination.  She  tried  to  smell 
the  flowers  that  would  decorate  the  stairs  and  the 
rooms,  and  to  see  the  men  and  women  passing  to 
and  fro.  Gerald  was  dancing  or  was  not  dancing. 
He  was  talking  to  a  dark  girl  or  to  a  fair  girl.  He 
was  at  supper  perhaps  now.  She  looked  at  her 
watch.  It  was  half-past  twelve. 

The  fire  was  falling  low  in  the  grate.  The  house 
was  silent.  The  hush  of  the  country  after  the  rumble 
of  London  smote  her  with  a  fresh  regret.  She 
sighed,  and  began  to  undress.  When  at  length  she 


174         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

was  ready  to  get  into  bed  a  curious  impulse  made 
her  draw  her  nightdress  down,  and  gaze  in  the 
glass  at  her  white  neck  and  arms.  She  was  splen- 
didly white,  and  so  prettily  rounded  that  she 
smiled  with  pleasure  at  her  beauty. 

She  sighed  again,  and  got  into  bed.  The  fire- 
light had  ceased  to  flicker  on  the  blue  walls,  and 
the  dead  embers  were  ceasing  even  to  crack  softly 
in  the  grate,  when  at  length  Araby  fell  asleep,  and 
tears  were  lying  like  dewdrops  upon  her  eye- 
lashes. 


CHAPTER  XV 

ECCRAM  was  a  moderately  large  house  standing 
in  a  few  acres  of  park,  which  with  the  gardens  at 
the  back  comprised  the  estate.  There  were  no  farms 
or  lands,  pasture  or  otherwise,  and  it  was  for  the 
compactness  of  the  place  that  thirty  years  earlier 
the  Miss  Woottons,  entering  on  their  permanent 
middle  age  at  a  time  when  other  women  are  still 
girls,  had  bought  it,  to  live  in  it  their  kindly  and 
monotonous  lives. 

They  had  furnished  it  massively  in  the  taste  of 
the  time.  The  dining-room,  comfortable,  substan- 
tial, and  handsome,  had  suffered  least  in  a  decade 
remarkable  for  its  lack  of  artistic  appreciation.  It 
was  hung  with  engraved  portraits  of  our  Royal 
Family.  The  drawing-room,  a  room  the  shape  of 
which  was  full  of  possibilities,  laboured  as  we  know 
at  disadvantage  under  a  weight  of  worsted-work 
and  antimacassars.  It  had  a  round  table  in  the 
middle,  with  a  cloth  of  crimson  velvet  pile,  on 
which  were  ranged  books,  a  paper-knife,  a  stereo- 
scope with  views  of  Switzerland  and  Northern 
Italy  (the  memento  of  a  foreign  tour),  and  two 


176        TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

albums  containing  photographs  of  people  of  those 
varying  forms  of  ugliness  that  are  in  part  at  least 
due  to  the  fashions  of  a  time  when  women  called 
Clara  and  Laura  were  girls,  and  men  were  spoken 
of  as  the  gentlemen.  On  a  marble-topped  book- 
case a  stuffed  kingfisher  dived  into  a  little  pool  of 
looking-glass  ;  and  there  were  other  abominations 
of  the  kind.  There  were  some  comfortable  chairs ; 
there  were  too  prim  sofas,  and  there  were  hard 
cushions  worked  with  beads  or  wool  and  orna- 
mented with  tassels  and  fringes.  There  were  stools 
too,  little  round  things,  six  inches  high,  upon  which 
human  foot  had  never  been  known  to  rest.  There 
was  a  carpet  with  a  huge  pattern  of  vases  overflow- 
ing with  roses.  There  was  a  glass  chandelier  for 
candles.  There  were  also  candlesticks  with  crystal 
drops.  There  was  a  grand  piano  which  was  locked, 
and  a  music-stool  shaped  like  a  square  hour-glass, 
and  worked  in  worsted.  There  was  an  ottoman 
which  opened  up  and  disclosed  a  chest.  There  was 
a  marble  mantelpiece,  and  a  worked  screen  upon 
a  folding  gilt  rod  screwed  on  to  one  side  of  it. 
There  were  many  other  ornaments  dating  alike 
from  the  Stone  Age  of  decoration. 

The  house  itself,  built  of  red  brick,  low-roofed, 
and  with  a  square  porch,  was  old  and  delightful. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         177 

It  had  crooked  oak  stairs,  with  elaborately  carved 
balustrades.  You  went  up  a  couple  of  steps  into 
some  of  the  rooms;  you  went  down  into  others. 
You  were  surprised  at  every  corner.  But  the  eternal 
feminine  shewed  itself  in  all  the  appointments,  and 
Araby,  who  up  to  a  few  months  back  had  lived 
there  for  nearly  fourteen  years,  now,  after  a  brief 
interval,  became  conscious  of  it.  She  wondered 
that  she  had  never  contrasted  the  prim  ladylike 
equipments  of  the  rooms  with  those  of  such  other 
country  houses  as  she  had  seen. 

Her  aunts'  shady  hats  hanging  on  pegs  of  the 
hat-rack  in  the  hall,  the  croquet  set  under  the  table, 
the  large  looking-glasses  in  gold  frames,  all  struck 
her  with  a  sense  of  pity  for  the  cramped  lives  of 
their  owners.  The  very  servants  seemed  to  date  as 
servants  from  times  remote.  There  was  a  house- 
maid with  stiff  joints  and  a  face  like  the  face  of  a 
rabbit.  The  butler  was  self-willed  and  rheumatic. 
The  cook  had  confessed  to  sixty  in  the  recent  cen- 
sus. Everywhere  indoors  was  an  atmosphere  of 
sedate  middle  age,  and  to  her  own  alarm,  in  the 
present  state  of  transition  of  her  mind,  Araby  real- 
ized it,  and  wondered  how  she  had  breathed  it  for 
so  long. 

She  awoke  on  the  morning  after  her  arrival  with 


178         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

the  sense  of  something  having  happened,  and  look- 
ing drowsily  at  the  blue  walls  of  her  room,  she  won- 
dered at  the  colour.  Her  room  in  Primate  Street 
was  pink.  Then  of  a  sudden  the  dead  silence  of 
the  country  struck  her,  and  she  started  up  and 
remembered  that  she  was  no  longer  in  London. 
After  that  she  lay  down  and  allowed  her  thoughts 
to  wander.  The  sight  of  the  frozen  window,  on  which 
the  palest  rays  of  a  winter  sun  were  glistening  till 
the  marvellous  patterns  seemed  wrought  in  pow- 
dered diamonds,  made  the  warmth  of  the  fine  white 
sheets  the  more  grateful,  and  a  delightful  sense  of 
ease  and  rest  stole  over  her.  She  thought  of  the 
false  Gerald  without  pain.  Nothing  mattered.  The 
stiff  housemaid  with  the  rabbit  smile  came  in  to 
light  her  fire,  and  Araby  woke  fully,  and  knew  that 
she  had  been  banished  to  Eccram,  and  that  she 
was  miserable.  Then  the  word  banished  in  connec- 
tion with  the  kind  aunts  and  her  home  smote  her 
with  remorse,  and  she  was  contrite. 

When  at  length  she  went  down  to  the  dining- 
room  she  found  the  aunts  at  breakfast.  They  were 
full  of  gentle  goodness  in  a  minor  key.  They  would 
not  have  her  called  earlier,  they  said,  but  they  were 
sure  that  she  would  excuse  them  for  having  begun 
without  her. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         179 

"But  of  course,  dear  Aunt  Laura,"  she  said, 
smiling.  She  was  a  little  bit  shocked  once  more 
when  their  politeness  struck  her  as  elaborate  and 
unnecessary. 

"They  are  so  good,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and 
oh,  I  am  horrid  !  " 

In  spite  of  herself  she  criticized  them.  Their 
figures  were  so  flat,  and  they  wore  elastic-sided 
boots  with  shining  toe-caps. 

"  I  am  horrid,"  she  said  to  herself  again. 

They  noted  the  smallness  of  her  appetite.  They 
thought  her  graver  than  of  old,  and  more  reserved. 
They  exchanged  glances.  She  found  herself  silent 
and  out  of  touch  with  such  subjects  as  interested 
them.  She  scarcely  knew  it,  but  she  was  shy.  They 
lived  in  a  different  world  from  that  in  which  her 
lines  were  now  cast,  and  she  had  forgotten  the 
simplicity  that  had  been  hers  when  her  own  life  had 
been  bound  up  with  theirs.  She  was  stricken  with 
pity  —  and  with  a  sense  of  shame  that  it  should  be 
so — for  these  two  women  who  had  grown  old  dully, 
and  whose  lives  ran  in  so  narrow  and  straight  a 
groove.  She  felt  herself  a  hypocrite  when  even  by 
the  assent  of  silence  she  appeared  to  agree  with 
one  or  other  of  them  upon  such  points  of  doc- 
trine or  demeanour  as  came  up  in  the  ordinary 


1 8o         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

course  of  conversation.  The  old  order  changes,  and 
she  had  changed  with  it,  and  once  more  she  felt 
that  the  former  conditions  were  impossible.  It  was 
curious  how  in  so  short  a  time,  and  insensibly,  her 
ideas  and  views  had  widened. 

After  breakfast  a  dull  morning  threatened.  Araby 
loitered  undecidedly  in  the  hall.  She  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  across  the  white  park.  A 
few  rooks  were  walking  about  on  the  drive.  The 
black  of  them  struck  an  insistent  note  against  the 
snow.  They  came  up  close  to  the  house,  and  looked 
to  Araby  of  abnormal  size.  She  fetched  some  scraps 
and  tried  to  interest  herself  in  feeding  them.  Miss 
Wootton  came  out  of  the  library. 

"What  would  you  like  to  do,  my  dear?  Would 
n't  you  like  to  go  out  ?  I  wish  we  had  anything  to 
amuse  you.  I  think  they  are  skating  on  the  park 
pond,  if  you  would  like  to  go  down  and  see." 

Laura  Wootton  had  followed  her  sister  into  the 
hall.  She  came  and  stood  on  Araby 's  other  side. 
She  wore  mittens,  and  her  fingers  were  pink  with 
the  cold  of  the  day.  Araby  was  disinclined  for  any- 
thing, but  felt  that  in  action  only  would  she  find 
rest  from  her  thoughts.  She  hailed  the  suggestion 
of  her  aunt  with  alacrity. 

"You  will  find  friends  down  there,  dear,"  said 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         181 

Miss  Wootton.  "  I  saw  Herbert  and  Cora  Pine 
skating  yesterday." 

Araby  went  to  her  room,  and  whether  the  mention 
of  the  young  soldier's  name  was  accountable  for  it 
or  not,  she  descended  presently  thence  wearing 
one  of  her  prettiest  hats.  She  fastened  her  coat  as 
she  came.  Her  skates  swung  by  the  straps  over  her 
arm,  and  made  a  pleasant  clicking  sound  as  the 
blades  struck  gently  together. 

So  keen  and  frosty  an  air  met  her  as  she  left  the 
house  that  her  cheeks  glowed  in  answer  to  it.  The 
frozen  snow  gave  crisply  under  her  feet  and  made 
a  sound  that  pleased  her.  Her  spirits  rose.  She 
began  to  run,  and  then  fell  back  into  a  walk. 

Eccram  stood  on  high  ground,  with  a  dip  at  the 
end  of  the  park  whence  the  country  stretched  itself 
for  square  miles  with  the  flatness  of  a  map.  In  the 
clearness  of  the  day  Araby  could  see  the  hedges 
that  made  a  hundred  fields  into  a  huge  chessboard. 
She  saw  farm-houses  and  the  spire  here  and  there 
of  a  church.  Behind  all  and  over  all,  and  at  the 
edge  it  seemed  of  the  world,  was  a  sky  of  turquoise 
blue,  banked  towards  the  north  with  fleecy  white 
clouds  ranged  in  rounded  shelves  one  above 
another.  These  meant  snow.  They  were  dazzling 
in  the  pure  sunlight. 


182         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Presently  she  was  reminded  of  Wimbledon,  her 
mother,  Gerald,  and  her  unhappiness  by  the  sound 
of  blades  ringing  on  the  ice.  She  gave  a  gesture 
of  impatience  and  quickened  her  pace. 

Herbert  Pine  was  disporting  himself  fantastically 
upon  his  skates.  Five  minutes  later  Araby  had 
flung  care  to  the  winds  and  was  swinging  through 
the  air  beside  him.  She  talked  and  she  laughed. 
He  listened  to  her  in  surprise  and  tried  to  under- 
stand her,  with  the  result  that  he  became  more 
than  ever  in  love  with  her.  Araby  saw  what  she 
was  doing  and  was  reckless. 

"Nothing  matters,"  she  said  to  him  with  young 
cynicism,  in  answer  to  some  remark  of  his,  "  nothing 
matters — nothing,  nothing,  nothing." 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  Woolwich  was 
knocking  his  lankiness  into  shape,  and  barmaids 
had  told  him  that  he  had  wicked  eyes.  His  man- 
ner at  home  was  less  deprecating  than  of  old,  and 
he  had  told  his  sister  that  there  was  hardly  a  girl 
worth  speaking  to  in  the  country.  Cora  Pine  had 
tossed  her  head  at  the  time,  but  she  had  not  failed 
to  proclaim  proudly  amongst  her  bosom  friends 
the  sweeping  assertion  of  her  tall  brother.  She 
might  have  chuckled  if  she  could  have  heard  his 
deference  to  Araby. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         183 

"  One  learns  that  in  London,"  he  said,  with  an 
attempt  at  his  grander  manner. 

He  was  feeling  somehow  that  Araby,  though 
she  talked  to  him  incessantly  and  skated  with  no 
one  else,  took  him  pretty  much  as  she  had  left 
him,  and  scarcely  realized  his  importance.  This 
served  but  the  more  to  increase  his  infatuation. 
He  stored  up  much  restlessness  for  himself  that 
day  upon  the  ice  of  the  park  pond. 

The  Pines  had  brought  down  luncheon  with 
them  and  begged  Araby  to  share  it.  She  accepted 
their  invitation,  and  despatched  a  lad  up  to  the 
house  with  a  message.  A  thousand  things  re- 
minded her  of  the  other  skating  party  and  of 
Gerald,  and  for  solace  she  devoted  herself  to  the 
conquest  of  a  boy  in  whom  she  could  now  barely 
interest  herself.  He  walked  home  with  her  through 
the  crisp  snow  in  the  red  sunset.  He  became  sen- 
timental and  talked  bitterly.  At  the  door  he  stood 
still. 

"Will  you  come  in  ? " 

He  had  been  wondering  all  the  way  from  the 
ice  whether  or  not  she  would  ask  this,  and  whether 
or  not  he  should  consent.  But  he  was  in  a  mood 
when  parting  had  an  attraction  for  him. 

"  No,  I  won't  come  in,"  he  said  without  a  smile, 


184         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

and  then  he  padded  "  Thank  you,"  as  an  after- 
thought. 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  and  Araby  put 
out  her  hand.  There  seemed  nothing  to  wait  for, 
but  she  knew  that  he  wished  to  detain  her. 

"  Oh,  don't  go,"  he  said,  hurriedly. 

"Why  not?"  said  Araby,  with  a  smile.  He 
saw  the  red  sunlight  striking  her  flaming  hair,  as 
Gerald  had  seen  it,  and  much  the  same  thoughts 
occurred  to  him,  but  he  could  not  express  them. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Araby,  still  smiling. 

"And  to-morrow,"  said  Pine,  "  to-morrow?" 

"  Oh,  to-morrow,"  said  Araby,  lightly,  "  to-mor- 
row, who  can  tell  ?  It  may  thaw.  This  frost  can't 
last  for  ever.  I  'm  not  sure  that  I  even  want  it  to 
last" 

Herbert  Pine  tapped  the  snow  with  his  boot. 

"  It  won't  thaw  to-night,"  he  said. 

Araby  shivered  and  drew  her  coat  more  closely 
across  her  chest.  What  a  smart  coat !  he  thought. 
It  was  plain  as  a  man's.  How  slight  and  supple 
was  the  figure  that  was  clothed  so  neatly ! 

"Now  I  must  go,"  she  said.  She  put  out  her 
hand  once  more. 

"If  it  doesn't  thaw,"  he  said,  humbly,  "and  it 
won't  —  " 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         185 

"  But  to-morrow  I  may  n't  want  to  skate,"  she 
said.  "  I  can't  tell.  It  may  not  be  necessary." 
"Necessary?" 
But  she  did  not  explain. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ARABY.  Araby.  Araby. 

Impressions,  recollections,  speculations  —  all  in 
retrospect ;  for  Araby  was  not  there.  Gerald,  puz- 
zled and  troubled  as  he  had  never  been  before, 
thought  of  her  continually.  Had  his  eyes  indeed 
been  holden  that  he  should  not  see  ?  From  the  be- 
ginning, then;  for  her  very  beauty  had  been  a 
revelation  to  him.  He  had  always  admired  her, 
but  what  he  thought  of  now  as  the  wonder  of  her 
had  been  withheld  from  him  till  that  moment 
when,  as  he  saw  her  standing  in  the  sunset  light, 
he  had  given  voice  to  the  thoughts  that  possessed 
him. 

He  saw  her  many  times  thus  in  the  days  that 
followed.  Another  impression  of  her  that  was  often 
present  to  him  was  of  her  face  as  he  had  seen  it 
on  the  day  when  he  had  met  her  on  the  white 
landing  outside  the  drawing-room  door  in  Primate 
Street;  and  another,  of  her  supple  and  slender 
form  sitting  at  the  piano,  as  she  sang.  He  remem- 
bered the  line  of  her  throat  and  head,  as  the  face 
was  raised  in  singing.  .  .  . 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         187 

He  heard  of  the  going  of  Araby  with  emotions 
he  could  not  have  thought  possible,  and  Mrs. 
Ruthven  did  more  wisely  even  than  she  herself 
guessed  in  keeping  her  own  counsel  just  then. 

He  was  rather  more  silent  than  usual  in  the  car- 
riage going  home,  but  otherwise  not  unlike  him- 
self. Miss  Ventnor  talked  all  the  way. 

"  The  Norfolk  girl  will  secure  the  Hartford  boy 
with  patience,"  she  said,  amongst  other  things. 

Gerald's  mouth  relaxed  to  a  smile. 

He  said  laconically  that  whenever  that  happened 
Miss  Norfolk  might  take  the  rest  which  she  had  so 
conscientiously  earned.  Then  he  lapsed  once  more 
into  silence,  and  Lennox  Gardens  was  reached. 

A  fire  was  burning  brightly  in  the  smoking- 
room.  Gerald  threw  himself  into  an  easy-chair 
beside  it  and  lit  a  cigar.  He  stretched  out  his  arm 
for  the  square  bottle  that  stood  on  a  table  at  hand. 
Then  he  proceeded  absently  to  open  a  bottle  of 
soda-water.  Miss  Ventnor,  with  apprehensive  eye- 
brows, stood  by  the  hearth  till  he  had  successfully 
accomplished  this,  and  then  she  pulled  a  stool  on 
to  the  rug  and  sat  at  his  feet  with  her  head  against 
his  knee. 

"  Gerald." 

"Yes,  dear." 


188         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Why  did  n't  Mrs.  Ruthven  bring  her  daughter 
to-night?" 

"  Probably  because  mother  has  n't  been  too 
civil." 

"  Mother  shall  call  to-morrow  or  the  day  after," 
said  Miss  Ventnor.  "  But  I  did  n't  mean  to  dinner." 

There  was  silence,  and  she  held  her  glass  up, 
and  looked  at  the  fire  through  the  pale  amber 
liquid.  His  stood  beside  him  untouched. 

"  I  meant  to  the  dance  —  that  was  different.  And 
she  went  herself.  Was  it  really  because  Miss  Ruth- 
ven is  barely  out  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  Gwen." 

There  was  another  silence.  He  watched  the 
blue  smoke  that  rose  from  his  cigar.  Miss  Ventnor 
looked  into  the  fire. 

You  could  n't  tell  with  Gerald.  Had  she  not  that 
very  night  heard  one  of  his  partners  mixing  her 
pronouns  in  a  spluttering  effort  to  express  him? 
"  He  sits  on  the  stairs  with  one  —  you  can  hardly 
ever  get  him  to  dance  —  and  one  talks  to  him  and 
I  don't  believe  he  hears  a  word  you  say."  And 
was  not  Miss  Norfolk,  who  was  yet  a  staunch 
friend  of  his,  reported  to  have  said  that  the  smile 
in  which  she  felt  that  he  had  summed  her  up  was 
somehow  an  epigram  ?  There  were  girls  who  had 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         189 

to  persuade  themselves  that  they  did  n't  like  him. 
No,  you  could  not  tell  with  Gerald.  And  the  worst 
of  it  was  that  this,  most  perversely,  was  part  of 
his  charm  for  you  ! 

She  emptied  her  glass  and  made  a  little  grimace. 

"  I  think  whisky  Js  horrid.  Good-night." 

She  put  her  face  down  to  his  to  be  kissed. 

"  Gerald ! " 

She  turned  back  from  the  door  and  advanced 
into  the  middle  of  the  room.  She  had  to  say  it. 

"Well?" 

"  Do  you  think  Mrs.  Ruthven  is  —  is  fond  of  her 
daughter  ?  " 

But  Gerald  provokingly  would  not  answer,  and 
after  lingering  undecidedly  for  a  moment  and  tell- 
ing him  that  he  was  horrid  too,  she  said  "  Good- 
night "  once  more  and  left  him. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Gerald.  He  smiled  absently 
when  the  door  had  closed  behind  her. 

He  sat  on  for  a  long  time  thinking. 

Presently  he  found  that  his  cigar  had  gone  out, 
and  he  lighted  another.  There  was  deliberation  in 
his  vigil,  for  he  threw  a  log  upon  the  fire  and  drew 
his  chair  nearer  to  the  fender.  What  a  cold  night 
it  was !  There  were  poor  devils  wandering  about 
London  now  without  a  roof  to  cover  them.  He 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

shuddered,  and  determined  to  double  his  subscrip- 
tions to  such  philanthropic  societies  as  cared  for 
the  physical  wants  of  the  destitute.  It  was  a  night 
for  charitable  inclinations  and  intentions. 

Then  came  fugitive  thoughts  of  the  George 
Athols ;  of  Mrs.  Ruthven's  emerald  ring,  which  had 
attracted  his  attention  when  she  drew  off  her  glove 
at  supper ;  of  the  Norfolk  girl  on  what  her  sister 
called  the  Hartford  chase ;  of  Gwen ;  and  then  his 
thoughts  steadied  themselves  as  before  to  a  defi- 
nite line  and  marked  Araby.  He  felt  somehow 
that  he  had  been  cheated  out  of  the  pleasure  he 
had  been  anticipating  in  the  evening  that  was 
over.  And  he  fancied  that  Araby  had  been  cheated 
too.  He  had  been  present  at  the  invitation.  He 
remembered  how  Araby 's  eyes  had  glowed  with 
prospective  enjoyment,  and  he  wondered  what  had 
happened  between  then  and  later  to  have  caused 
what  was  obviously  sudden,  and  a  change  of  plans. 
Mrs.  Ruthven's  manner  at  supper  had  somehow 
puzzled  him.  He  wondered  how  his  hurried  visit 
to  St.  James's  Hall  had  come  to  her  knowledge. 
He  remembered  then  something  that  Araby  had 
said  to  him  as  he  put  her  into  the  cab.  She  had 
asked  him  whether  her  mother  knew  of  his  com- 
ing, and  when  he  had  said  that  it  was  not  so,  she 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         191 

had  begged  him  to  return  to  the  theatre  with  all 
possible  speed.  She  had  even,  he  thought,  shown 
some  apprehension  as  to  the  consequences  of  his 
act.  This  at  least  was  his  impression. 

He  thought  over  these  things,  till  the  conviction 
was  strong  within  him  that  in  some  way  Araby's 
going  was  connected  with  the  trifling  incident  of 
that  evening. 

The  immediate  result  of  thinking  over  the  situa- 
tion was,  that  Gerald  in  the  course  of  the  next  day 
or  two  found  himself  so  restless  and  perplexed 
that  he  determined  to  leave  town.  There  were 
plenty  of  country  houses  open  to  him.  He  had 
been  refusing  invitations  lately,  because  just  then 
London  seemed  as  good  a  place  to  be  in  as  any 
other.  His  sister  thought  him  uncommunicative. 
Lady  Ventnor,  with  the  air  of  a  martyr,  had  duly 
called  upon  Mrs.  Ruthven,  but  when  Gwen  told 
him  of  the  visit,  he  seemed  to  her  indifferent. 

"  You  would  have  laughed  if  you  could  have 
seen  mamma,"  she  said,  chuckling  a  little  over  her 
recollections.  "  She  grumbled  all  the  way,  and 
abused  everybody  —  Mrs.  Sandon  and  you  and 
me,  and  Audrey  for  letting  her  house — and  then 
when  she  met  Mrs.  Ruthven  she  gushed  —  posi- 
tively gushed.  You  know  mamma's  empress^  man- 


192         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

ner.  And  I  am  sure  Mrs.  Ruthven  must  have 
thought  her  charming." 

Gerald  said  that  he  was  glad  that  his  mother 
had  been  civil. 

"  But  it  was  n't  from  motives  of  civility,"  said 
Miss  Ventnor,  still  chuckling.  "It  was  pure  insin- 
cerity. Mamma  is  inherently  insincere." 

Gerald  smiled  absently,  and  his  sister,  who  did 
not  altogether  dislike  the  sound  of  Miss  Ventnor' s 
voice,  began  to  speculate  idly  as  to  when  this  in- 
herited trait  would  break  out  in  herself.  She  arrived 
at  no  very  definite  conclusions.  Gerald  did  not 
appear  to  regard  the  subject  as  one  of  any  impor- 
tance, to  judge  by  his  preoccupied  look,  and  Miss 
Ventnor  subsided  into  silence. 

He  went  round  to  Primate  Street  on  the  day  be- 
fore his  departure. 

"And  for  how  long?"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven,  when 
he  had  told  her  that  he  was  leaving  London.  She 
looked  at  him  intently  for  a  few  moments,  and 
noted  many  trivial  things. 

He  enumerated  a  few  of  the  houses  he  was  going 
to  visit. 

"Then  you  will  be  away  a  month." 

"  Quite  that  —  perhaps  two." 

"  This  is  a  change  of  plan,  isn't  it?" 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         193 

"  I  generally  make  up  my  mind  suddenly.  I  like 
to  be  free." 

She  looked  at  him  again. 

"  What  is  it  about  you  ?  You  're  not  like  your- 
self to-day.  You  're  different—  " 

It  struck  her  that  '  indifferent '  would  have  ex- 
pressed her  meaning  just  as  well. 

Gerald  did  not  refute  the  charge  with  any  alac- 
rity. He  was  not  of  the  kind  that  hastens  to  fill  a 
silence.  Pauses  did  not  embarrass  him. 

"How  is  Miss  Ruthven?"  he  asked,  presently. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke 
to  have  told  that  the  subject  was  one  of  any  par- 
ticular interest  to  him. 

"  Araby  ?  —  oh,  Araby  Js  very  well." 

So  the  talk  languished.  Mrs.  Ruthven  realized 
that  something  of  her  hold  over  Gerald  was  gone. 
Gerald  was  not  less  conscious  of  this,  and  the  sit- 
uation was  strained. 

He  rose  at  length  to  go. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven.  "  Good-bye.  I 
hope  you  will  have  a  good  time.  When  you  have 
nothing  better  to  do,  you  might  write  me  a  line  to 
say  how  the  world  goes  with  you." 

When  the  drawing-room  door  closed  behind 
him,  she  went  and  stood  by  the  fire.  The  flames 


194         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

leapt  cheerily,  and  were  reflected  in  the  hot  tiles. 
But  to  the  woman  who  leant  against  the  mantel- 
piece, and  whose  face  wore  a  smile,  the  hearth  and 
her  own  heart  and  life  seemed  full  of  ashes. 

Gerald  met  Olympe  on  the  stairs.  She  held  some 
pieces  of  glass  and  a  broken  frame.  Gerald  nodded 
to  her. 

"An  accident,  Mile.  Olympe ?" 

"  An  accident,  for  example,  monsieur.  Je  crois 
bien.  I  take  up  Miss  Araby  to  clean  the  frame,  and 
my  'ans  are  so  cold,  I  let  fall." 

Gerald  saw  that  the  broken  frame  held  a  photo- 
graph of  Araby. 

"  The  glass  —  that  is  nothing.  I  get  another  for 
a  few  sous.  But  the  silver  is  bent  and  a  —  what 
you  call,  a  screw  —  a  rivet  —  is  missing.  Well,  no 
matter.  It  can't  be  'elped.  I  take  it  to  the  shop." 

"  Let  me  see/'  said  Gerald,  but  he  looked  at  the 
picture,  not  the  frame. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  found  Araby  once 
more.  It  was  his  fancy  that  the  eyes  were  re- 
proachful. 

"  Shall  I  get  it  mended  for  you,  Mile.  Olympe  ?" 

"  Oh,  monsieur ! " 

"  I  know  a  man  in  Sloane  Street  who  would  do 
it,"  said  Gerald.  "  It  is  a  small  thing.  He  will  make 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         195 

it  as  good  as  new.  The  silver  can  easily  be  straight- 
ened." 

"  You  are  too  good,  monsieur.  It  is  too  much  to 
trouble  you  —  " 

"  It  is  no  trouble,"  said  Gerald.  "  I  pass  the  shop 
on  my  way  home." 

"  Thank  you,  monsieur,  a  thousand  times.  Let 
me  —  " 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  remove  the  photograph.  I  make  you  less  to 
carry." 

"  Oh,  I  would  n't  do  that,"  said  Gerald. 

"Bien,  monsieur." 

Her  twinkling  eyes  met  his,  and  became  sud- 
denly grave. 

"  Miss  Araby  was  sorry  to  go,"  she  said,  ab- 
ruptly. The  butler  came  up  to  whistle  for  a  han- 
som, and  Olympe  with  large  hips  and  light  tread 
tripped  upstairs. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

GERALD  VENTNOR  spent  a  fortnight  in  Leicester- 
shire, a  week  in  Hampshire,  a  few  days  in  Essex, 
and  heard  nothing  of  the  Ruthvens.  He  kept 
Araby's  photograph  till  the  frame  was  mended, 
and  by  that  time  he  knew  that  he  was  in  love  with 
her,  and  that  he  meant  it. 

It  was  grudgingly  even  then  that  he  parted  with 
the  picture.  It  seemed  to  him  that  in  studying  it  he 
was  getting  to  know  the  girl  herself  better.  He  dis- 
covered fresh  beauties  in  it  every  day.  He  looked 
at  it  till  he  almost  fancied  he  had  called  up  an  an- 
swer into  the  eyes,  as  devout  Catholics  have  adored 
images  of  the  Virgin  till  in  an  ecstasy  of  devotion 
they  have  imagined  miraculous  signs  from  the  in- 
animate wood  or  stone.  Gerald  in  love  was  a  new 
Gerald,  but  with  something  of  the  same  Gerald 
still.  It  was  enough  for  him  that  he  knew  that  he 
loved  Araby.  He  was  able  to  feed  upon  his  own 
love  for  her,  and  he  was  beset  by  no  fever  of  impa- 
tience to  declare  himself.  He  preferred  indeed  to 
have  a  time  in  which  to  think  of  her  and  of  the 
future.  For  this  he  had  no  fears.  What  was  there 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         197 

indeed  to  fear  ?  Lady  Ventnor,  of  course,  since  she 
distrusted  all  girls,  and  suffered  acutely  by  reason 
of  her  fear  that  her  son  would  be  entrapped  by  the 
designing,  would  raise  her  voice  in  woe ;  but  it 
was  a  voice  to  which  little  heed  was  paid,  either  in 
Lennox  Gardens  or  at  Combe  Lecton ;  and  Sir 
John,  master  of  his  own  house,  was  in  favour  of 
early  marriages.  There  was  no  reason  to  dread 
obstacles. 

Gerald  did  not  care  to  think  of  Mrs.  Ruthven 
just  then.  But  he  had  to  think  of  her  whether  he 
would  or  no.  It  seemed  to  him  that  with  his  sud- 
den attraction  to  Araby  —  with,  as  he  expressed  it 
to  himself,  the  opening  of  his  eyes,  which  up  to  then 
had  been  blind  —  there  had  come  almost  a  revul- 
sion of  feeling  against  her  mother.  When  he  looked 
back  over  the  last  few  months,  it  appeared  to  him 
that  there  had  always  been  grave  limitations  to 
such  admiration,  call  it  what  you  like,  as  he  had 
had  for  her.  Possibly  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
one  of  many  was  not  outbalanced  by  the  later 
knowledge  that  he  was  or  he  might  be  the  one  of 
all.  Perhaps  this  later  knowledge  did  not  —  since 
the  affections  know  no  coercion  —  draw  him  nearer 
to  her.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  more  he  thought  of 
Araby  the  further  he  receded  from  Mrs.  Ruthven. 


198         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Much  that  had  impressed  him  little  at  the  time  of 
its  occurrence  took  now  a  sinister  meaning.  He 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  Araby  had  been  sub- 
jected to  unkindness  or  neglect.  He  did  not  in 
point  of  fact  believe  that  either  had  been  palpable. 
He  accused  Mrs.  Ruthven  of  nothing  that  was  ac- 
tive. He  had  never  been  present  at  the  baiting  of 
Araby.  His  charge  against  her  mother  was  rather 
that  of  a  deliberate  withholding  of  her  sympathy, 
and  of  making  Araby  of  no  account.  He  had  read 
the  girl's  character  sufficiently  well  to  know  that 
she  was  sensitive.  He  felt  that  she  was  being  re- 
pressed, and  driven  back  upon  herself. 

Gerald  began  to  build  castles  in  the  air.  He  had 
gathered  generally  from  remarks  that  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven had  made  concerning  the  Miss  Woottons,  that 
Araby's  upbringing  had  been  narrow  in  its  ten- 
dency. Araby  was  still  so  young  that  Gerald  told 
himself  that  the  delight  of  directing  her  into  broader 
paths  would  be  his.  Under  his  tender  care  of  her, 
he  would  see  her  develop  and  expand,  as  some 
beautiful  flower  expands  when  the  plant  that  bears 
it  is  taken  from  an  ungenerous  spot,  where  it  has 
been  denied  air  and  light,  and  removed  to  a  richer 
soil  and  a  freer  and  clearer  atmosphere. 

He  would  take  Araby  abroad.    They  should 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         199 

travel  together,  seeing  all  that  was  beautiful  in  art 
and  nature.  Araby,  since  her  childhood,  had  never 
been  out  of  England,  and  he  imagined  something 
of  the  freshness  of  the  happiness  that  would  be 
hers,  and  vicariously  his,  as  she  received  new  im- 
pressions. There  would  be  an  unconscious  educa- 
tion for  them  both.  She  would  learn  the  world,  and 
get  wisdom  by  experience ;  he  would  teach  her. 
The  pleasure  of  such  a  schooling  as  this  was  a 
thing  on  which  to  dream.  .  .  . 

Time  passed  meanwhile.  If  Araby  had  been  in 
Primate  Street,  Gerald  would  have  gone  back  to 
London ;  but  he  knew  her  to  be  still  staying  with 
the  Miss  Woottons,  and  he  prolonged  his  visits. 
He  had  expected  a  line  from  Olympe  to  acknow- 
ledge the  mended  frame,  and  he  awaited  it  with 
some  small  impatience.  He  accounted  for  her  si- 
lence when  he  heard  from  his  sister  casually,  and 
amongst  the  other  items  of  news  with  which  she 
filled  her  letters,  that  Mrs.  Ruthven  had  left  town. 

He  had,  however,  almost  ceased  to  expect  it, 
when  there  reached  him  one  day  a  note  written  in 
the  flowing  and  flourishing  hand  of  the  French- 
woman. It  bore  the  Eccram  post-mark,  and  had 
been  forwarded  to  him  from  Lennox  Gardens. 
Olympe  expressed  unlimited  gratitude  for  the  ser- 


200         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

vice  which  Monsieur  had  done  for  her,  and  much 
regret  that,  owing  to  a  delay  in  sending  the  frame 
after  her  from  Primate  Street,  she  had  not  known 
sooner  of  its  arrival,  and  so  been  able  to  thank 
Monsieur  at  once.  The  goodness  of  Monsieur  the 
writer  would  never  forget,  and  if  at  any  time  she 
could  be  of  use  to  Monsieur  in  any  way,  Monsieur 
had  but  to  command  her. 

Gerald  read  nothing  between  the  lines.  But  a 
sentence  in  a  postscript  surprised  him,  and  dis- 
turbed him  somewhat  as  well :  — 

"I  am  sure  that  Miss  Araby  would  wish  to 
express  obligation  to  Monsieur  for  his  kindness. 
I  must  make  thanks  for  Mademoiselle  by  proxy. 
Miss  Araby  is  out  for  a  walk  with  Mr.  Hartford  at 
the  moment." 

Gerald  looked  up  from  the  letter. 

"What  does  the  woman  mean?"  he  said  to 
himself,  when  he  had  read  the  words  twice.  "  What 
does  Olympe  mean?  She  had  some  reason  for 
adding  that.  And  Hartford  —  what  the  devil  is  he 
doing  at  Eccram  ?  " 

He  could  find  no  satisfactory  answers  to  the 
questions  he  asked.  In  his  perplexity  he  bethought 
him  of  Mrs.  Sandon,  who  might,  he  thought,  be 
able  to  help  him  ;  so,  diplomatically,  hoping  that 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         201 

she  would  be  diffuse  in  reply,  he  asked  if  she  could 
furnish  him  with  his  friend's  address. 

He  smiled  to  himself  as  he  directed  and  stamped 
the  envelope. 

Mrs.  Sandon  answered  his  letter  by  return  of 
post.  She  was  as  diffuse  as  any  one  could  have 
wished,  but  in  another  direction.  Her  neighbour, 
Lady  Murgatroyd,  had  succumbed  after  only  a 
few  days'  illness  to  an  attack  of  bronchitis,  and 
had  left  all  she  possessed  to  the  scamp  Sloane 
Wetherby. 

Mrs.  Sandon  was  bubbling  over  with  so  much 
excitement,  and  with  such  indignation  (tempered 
at  intervals  by  remorse  and  charity),  that  she  wrote 
four  pages,  almost  innocent  of  punctuation,  and 
only  at  the  end  remembered  to  answer  Gerald's 
question. 

"  My  intimate  friend  and  neighbour,"  she  wrote, 
"  and  after  only  being  ill  the  inside  of  a  week  I  heard 
she  had  this  horrid  bronchitis  on  Monday.  She  has 
always  been  subject  to  it  in  the  winter  and  she 
will  not  take  care  of  herself  I  sent  over  at  once  to 
enquire  and  by  Sunday  night  she  was  dead.  Is  n't 
it  dreadful  —  I  could  scarcely  believe  it  when  it 
was  told  to  me  I  have  seen  her  almost  every  day 


202         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

for  the  last  ten  years  and  I  can  hardly  realize  yet 
that  I  shall  never  see  her  again.  And  to  think  that 
she  should  have  left  everything  to  that  rogue  who 
treated  her  so  badly  It  makes  me  wild  I  never 
could  understand  what  she  saw  in  him  but  he  could 
always  twist  her  round  his  little  finger.  She  was  a 
good  woman  and  one  doesn't  like  to  say  any- 
thing now  that  she  is  dead — I  was  very  fond  of  her 
though  one  might  have  wished  that  she  had  had  a 
little  more  I  was  going  to  say  sense  but  I  don't  like 
to  use  the  word  in  this  connection.  Still  one  can't 
help  regretting  the  failings  of  one's  friends  I  shall 
miss  her  dreadfully  she  used  to  come  in  at  odd 
times  and  I  was  always  glad  to  see  her —  Nothing 
saddens  one  so  much  as  one  gets  older  as  the 
dropping  off  one  by  one  of  one's  old  friends  Poor 
dear  Lady  Murgatroyd  she  hated  the  word  so  much 
that  I  don't  think  she  would  have  liked  to  be  called 
'  old '  even  as  a  friend  I  hear  she  looked  a  thousand 
in  her  coffin.'1 

Gerald  involuntarily  smiled,  and  thought  that 
Lady  Murgatroyd  would  have  risen  from  her  grave 
could  she  have  read  this. 

"  I  feel  very  sad  and  lonely,"  the  letter  ran  as  it 
approached  an  end.  "  I  suppose  it  will  be  my  turn 
next  Care  of  Miss  Wootton  Eccram  Northshire 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         203 

will  find  Mr.  Hartford  Mrs.  Ruthven  went  down 
there  herself  a  few  days  ago  and  took  him  with 
her  She  is  always  unaccountable  Come  and  see 
me  when  you  come  back  to  town  and  cheer  me  up 
for  I  feel  very  low. 

"  Yours  affly, 

"EMMA  SANDON. 

"  P.S.  I  should  scarcely  think  that  scamp  would 
dare  to  show  his  face  in  London  just  yet,  but  it 
would  be  just  like  him  if  he  brazened  it  out  Sloane 
Wetherby  I  mean." 

Gerald  folded  up  the  letter. 

"  One  less  unhappy  woman  in  the  world,"  he 
said  to  himself  with  a  sigh.  "  Poor  Lady  Murga- 
troyd !  And  after  all  why  should  n't  she  do  as  she 
liked  with  her  own  ?  " 

But  he  went  back  at  once  to  his  thought  of 
Araby,  and  in  this  his  attitude  may  be  taken  as 
symbolical  of  that  of  others  of  the  acquaintances 
of  the  restless  woman  who  had  laid  down  her  arms 
in  the  fight.  A  few  words  expressive  of  shock  at 
the  suddenness  of  her  defeat,  a  few  words  of  re- 
gret, a  whisper  of  scandal,  an  eyebrow  raised,  a 
head  shaken,  and  those  amongst  whom  Lady  Mur- 


204         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

gatroyd  had  passed  her  unsatisfied  life  talked  of 
other  things.  So  Lady  Murgatroyd  died  and  was 
forgotten. 

Gerald  could  scarcely  have  said  why  the  pres- 
ence of  Hartford  at  Eccram  disquieted  him.  Mrs. 
Ruthven's  departure  too  from  town  was  sudden  as 
that  of  Araby,  and  a  presentiment  that  all  was  not 
well  —  and  the  normal  Gerald,  the  Gerald  out  of 
love,  did  not  believe  in  presentiments  nor  attach 
any  importance  to  them,  —  now  took  possession 
of  him. 

In  this  mood  he  wrote  to  Mrs.  Ruthven.  He  had 
expected  from  what  he  knew  of  women  that  she 
would  have  written  to  him  first ;  and  the  fact  that 
he  had  not  heard  from  her  added  itself  to  the  sum 
of  the  other  things  which  were  vaguely  disturbing 
him. 

Happily  at  length  the  frost  broke  up,  and  a  few 
days  with  the  hounds  seemed  to  bring  him  back 
somewhat  to  himself.  When  a  week  had  passed, 
and  there  seemed  no  likelihood  of  a  return  of  the 
severe  weather,  he  began  to  think  of  going  home 
to  Combe  Lecton  for  the  end  of  the  hunting.  The 
stables  which  had  been  undergoing  alteration  were 
finished,  and  he  heard  from  his  father  of  a  run 
that  made  him  wish  to  be  in  his  own  county.  He 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         205 

determined  as  soon  as  he  had  got  through  his 
engagements  to  lose  as  little  of  the  season  as 
remained. 

In  the  meantime  he  heard  from  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
She  wrote  him  a  long  letter,  and  told  him  nothing 
that  he  wished  to  know,  which  is  tantamount  to 
saying  that  Araby  was  scarcely  mentioned,  and 
Hartford  most  casually. 

Gerald  felt  that  he  could  do  nothing,  and  he 
resigned  himself  to  the  inevitable  and  waited.  He 
would  have  written  to  Araby  herself  if  he  had  not 
realized  how  very  slight  their  acquaintance  was, 
intimate  as  it  seemed  to  him.  He  must  not  forget, 
he  told  himself,  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her 
two  days  at  the  most  before  she  was  parted  from 
him.  When  he  sought  the  exact  moment,  he  placed 
it  at  that  which  had  brought  him  face  to  face  with 
her  on  the  white  landing  outside  the  drawing-room 
door  in  Primate  Street.  The  impression  she  made 
upon  him  then  had  been  deepened  when  she  sung 
in  the  firelight  of  the  later  afternoon.  Then  at  din- 
ner he  had  ignored  her.  That  was  horrible,  and  a 
thing  to  forget.  He  had  made  up  for  that  perhaps 
by  the  hurried  meeting  with  her  at  the  St.  James's 
Hall.  After  that  came  the  day  on  the  ice,  and 
the  sudden  and  fuller  realizing  of  her  beauty ;  and 


206         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

after  that  nothing  actually — virtually  everything. 
Gerald  had,  as  it  were,  fallen  in  love  on  last  sight, 
and  worked  backwards.  He  got  to  know  her  in 
retrospect. 

Obviously  he  could  not  write. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FEBRUARY  was  half  gone,  and  six  weeks  had 
passed  since  Gerald  left  town  when  he  started  for 
the  visit  which  he  determined  should  be  his  last 
before  going  home  to  Combe  Lecton.  He  knew 
that  he  should  meet  a  big  party,  for  his  hostess 
was  filling  her  house  for  a  couple  of  balls  in  the 
neighbourhood,  but  he  did  not  expect  to  see  any 
one  that  would  interest  him,  much  less  did  he 
expect  to  hear  news  of  the  Ruthvens. 

He  arrived  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  hurried  to 
his  room  to  dress.  On  the  stairs,  as  he  came  down, 
he  met  Miss  Norfolk. 

He  was  frankly  glad  to  see  her,  and  he  said  so 
when  they  had  exchanged  greetings.  He  had 
met  her  so  often  in  Primate  Street  that  she  had  in 
his  eyes  some  faint  reflection  from  the  glory  of 
Araby. 

"  I  rather  think,"  she  said,  as  they  crossed  the 
big  hall,  "  I  rather  think  you  have  got  to  take  me 
in  to  dinner." 

"Well,"  said  Gerald  with  amusement,  "I  don't 
mind." 


208         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"That's  right,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  "for  I  have 
a  lot  to  talk  to  you  about." 

They  reached  the  drawing-room. 

Gerald's  hostess  came  forward  and  welcomed 
him.  She  said  all  the  usual  things.  She  has  little 
bearing  upon  the  story,  and  she  may  be  briefly 
dismissed  as  a  rich  woman  who  had  married  three 
men  and  buried  them,  and  who  now  "  ran  "  their 
daughters. 

Gerald  found  several  acquaintances  in  the  room, 
and  by  the  time  he  had  shaken  hands  with  them 
dinner  was  announced. 

Miss  Norfolk  walked  beside  him  to  the  dining- 
room  in  silence.  There  was  something  in  her  man- 
ner that  led  him  to  expect  the  unexpected.  She  did 
not  chatter,  and  he  thought  that  there  was  more  in 
her  face  than  he  had  supposed.  But  he  never  took 
Miss  Norfolk  seriously. 

"What  had  you  to  tell  me?"  he  said. 

He  was  reminded  as  he  spoke  the  words  that 
he  had  used  them  to  Mrs.  Ruthven  a  few  weeks 
back,  and  he  thought  of  Araby  and  sighed.  A 
babel  of  tongues  filled  the  room.  Arrivals  of  the 
day  were  taking  their  bearings. 

"You  do  as  you  like,"  Gerald  heard  a  girl  tell- 
ing a  man  who  had  come  by  the  same  train  as 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         209 

himself ;  "  you  will  see  all  sorts  of  notices  in  your 
room  about  the  hours  of  meals,  and  not  keeping 
the  carriages  waiting,  but  you  don't  take  any 
notice  of  them.  It  is  n't  a  bad  house  to  stay  in,  but 
the  girls  watch  you.  There  are  five  of  them,  mostly 
step-sisters.  You  will  be  expected  to  dance  with 
all  of  them." 

"Are  there  five?"  said  Gerald  to  Miss  Norfolk. 

Miss  Norfolk  nodded. 

"  Every  second  or  third  girl  round  the  table  is  a 
daughter  of  the  house,"  she  said.  "  There  were  six. 
One  married.  Look  at  your  hostess,  Mr.  Ventnor ; 
wouldn't  you  like  her  for  your  wife's  mother?" 

Gerald  looked  up  the  table  at  the  high-nosed 
lady  at  the  head  of  it,  and  said,  — 

"God  forbid!" 

Then  he  wondered  how  he  should  like  Mrs. 
Ruthven  in  the  same  capacity.  All  thought  at  this 
period  of  his  life  seemed  to  lead  back  to  Araby. 

There  was  a  pause.  He  had  diverted  Miss  Nor- 
folk for  the  moment  from  her  purpose.  Again  he 
caught  from  the  general  chorus  of  voices  detached 
snatches  of  conversation.  The  man  who  had  tra- 
velled with  him  had  settled  down  into  a  steady 
flirtation  with  the  girl  he  had  taken  in  to  dinner. 
They  were  discussing  the  colour  of  her  eyes, 


210         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  They  are  not  hazel,"  said  Miss  Norfolk  in  an 
aside  to  Gerald ;  "  they  are  drab." 

"  What  had  you  to  say  to  me  ?  "  said  Gerald 
again. 

Niss  Norfolk  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  or  two 
before  she  answered  him.  Then  she  began  to  laugh. 

"I  must  tell  some  one,"  she  said,  "and  I'm 
moved  to  tell  you.  I've  done  a  generous  action 
and  —  I  've  lost  the  reward." 

Gerald,  raising  his  eyebrows,  said  that  Miss 
Norfolk  could  not  mean  that. 

"  Which  ?  "  asked  she,  "  the  action  or  the  re- 
ward manquk  ?  I  mean  both,  unhappily.  You  see  I 
thought  I  was  certain  of  the  reward  when  I  per- 
formed the  action,  but  I  was  what  you  call  a  little 
bit  previous." 

"  Annoying ! "  said  Gerald. 

"Pray,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  " treat  the  matter 
with  becoming  seriousness.  I  'm  in  desperate  earn- 
est. What  I'm  going  to  tell  you  is  the  disappoint- 
ment and  temporary  failure  of  a  life  —  I  use  the 
word  temporary  advisedly,  for  I  don't  intend  to 
fail  in  the  end." 

"  And  your  aims  and  object  ?  "  said  Gerald. 

"  A  girl  with  five  sisters — my  mother's  quiver, 
you  see,  is  as  full  as  the  quiver  here,  but  I  do  claim 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         211 

for  us  that  we  're  better-looking !  —  a  girl,  I  say,  in 
such  a  case  owes  a  duty  to  her  family.  I  see  my  duty 
clearly.  It's  my  aim  and  my  object  to  perform  it; 
but  I  'm  not  going  to  propose  to  you,  Mr.  Ventnor." 

"  And  the  generous  action?"  asked  Gerald. 

Miss  Norfolk  thought  for  a  few  moments.  Ger- 
ald looked  round  the  table.  In  the  pause  the  lady 
upon  his  left  made  some  remark  to  him.  Miss 
Norfolk  waited  for  his  attention. 

"The  generous  action?"  he  said,  turning  to  her 
as  soon  as  he  could  politely  disengage  himself. 

"  Here,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  "  comes  the  serious 
part  of  my  story  —  the  part,  don't  you  know,  which 
should  be  spoken  to  slow  music.  You  wouldn't 
think  I  had  much  sentiment,  would  you  ?  I  don't 
know  that  I  thought  so  myself  till  I  met  —  Some- 
one. Oh,  my  Someone  !  He — you  mayn't  believe 
it  —  had  the  odd  taste  to  fall  in  love  with  me.  He 
fell  in  love  with  me  badly,  and  .  .  .  well,  I  sup- 
pose I  have  some  feeling  after  all." 

There  was  a  tone  in  Miss  Norfolk's  voice  that 
was  unusual.  Gerald's  eyes  met  hers,  which  did 
not  falter,  and  she  proceeded  after  a  little  pause :  — 

"  As  much,  then,  as  it  is  in  me  to  care  for  any 
one,  I  care  for  this  man  who  cares  for  me.  Is  n't  it 
hideous  in  this  world  that  one  must  consider  ways 


212         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

and  means  ?  He  is  a  barrister.  He  had  n't  a  pros- 
pect in  the  world  a  month  ago.  To-day,  by  a  series 
of  accidents,  he  has  heaps  —  prospects  to  satisfy 
anyone.  He  had  a  very  rich  uncle  who  was  kind 
to  him,  but  the  uncle  had  married  a  young  wife, 
and  had  an  heir.  No  expectations,  you  see.  Noth- 
ing. Just  a  small  allowance.  Three  weeks  ago  the 
young  wife  ran  away  with  a  lover.  (Shocking!) 
But  that  is  n't  all.  The  child  was  told  some  story 
by  its  nurse,  which  led  it  to  suppose  that  it  would 
find  its  mother  at  some  place  where  it  —  the  child, 
you  know  —  had  often  stayed  with  her,  and  it  went 
off  there  by  itself,  and  was  run  over  and  killed.  So 
at  a  bound  my  barrister  becomes  ...  do  you  see  ? 
All  of  which  sounds  like  a  fairy  story,  but  is  true." 

"  I  'm  still  in  the  dark,"  said  Gerald.  "  I  see  that 
the  prospectively  rich  barrister  may  be  the  re- 
ward— " 

"  He  is  n't  the  reward,"  said  Miss  Norfolk ;  "  not 
the  reward  I  had  expected,  any  way,  though  he 
would  have  done  ten  thousand  times  as  well.  Be- 
sides, you  have  n't  heard  the  generous  action  yet. 
I  had  given  him  away." 

"  Given  him  away?" 

"  Before  I  knew  his  worth,  it  is  true.  Still  it  did 
involve  a  sacrifice.  I  have  a  sister,  one  Anne,  an 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         213 

unworldly  girl,  whom  I  am  very  fond  of.  She  is 
very  different  from  all  of  us.  I  found  out  that  she 
was  —  well,  one  word  does  as  well  as  another  — 
head  over  ears  in  love  with  my  barrister.  She 
does  n't  care  for  any  of  the  things  which  —  which 
I  can't  get  on  without  —  money,  fun  —  oh,  you 
know — and  I  gave  her  my  barrister." 

"How?" 

"Well,  he  asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  asked 
me  whether  I  cared  for  him.  I  said  no.  I  said  I 
did  n't.  I  told  him  a  lie.  I  did  care  for  him.  I  do 
care  for  him,  but  I  thought  I  saw  my  reward  safe 
if  I  gave  him  to  Anne.  I  talk  glibly  of  giving  him, 
don't  I  ?  But  I  have  some  grounds  for  it.  Anne 
would  never  have  got  him  without  me.  He  always 
liked  her,  but  .  .  .  Well,  you  know  a  man  will 
often  go,  at  a  rebound,  from  the  woman  who  has 
refused  him  to  the  nearest  woman  he  likes.  I  gave 
him  to  Anne  in  that  way."  Miss  Norfolk  paused. 
Gerald  waited.  "So  I'm  paying  visits  to  keep  out 
of  their  way  for  a  bit."  Gerald  nodded.  Miss  Nor- 
folk crumbled  her  bread.  "  I  think  he 's  happy  with 
Anne,"  she  said  then,  "  but  I  could  get  him  back 
by  beckoning  with  my  little  finger.  Do  you  see  ? 
My  little  finger.  He  '11  forgive  me  in  time,  and  love 
Anne  as  she  deserves." 


214         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Poor  Harry  "  was  what  Gerald  wanted  to  say. 
"I  still/'  he  said,  "  want  to  know  of  the  reward  you 
expected." 

Miss  Norfolk  was  silent  again.  Gerald  was  won- 
dering how  far  the  girl  who  was  talking  to  him  was 
doing  herself  justice.  He  felt  attracted  to  her,  and 
he  fancied  somehow  that  deeper  feelings  than  she 
acknowledged  underlay  what  she  had  told  him. 

"  I  have  a  reason  for  telling  you/'  she  said  pres- 
ently, "beyond  the  wish  to  tell  somebody.  After 
certain  words  that  passed  between  Mr.  Hartford 
and  myself  at  the  George  Athols',  I  thought  I 
had  only  to  wait  a  day  or  two  to  announce  myself 
engaged  to  him.  Yes,  it  is  funny,  isn't  it?  I 
should  n't  be  in  love  with  him,  but  he  would  give 
me  all  that  I  want,  and  we  could  both  be  very  happy, 
He  very  nearly  —  how  shall  I  put  it  ?  —  accepted 
me  at  supper  that  night.  I  gave  my  barrister  to 
Anne  to  leave  myself  free  to  marry  Mr.  Hartford 
and  his  very  good  fortunes.  By  doing  this  I  un- 
consciously gave  up  what  would  have  been  a  very 
good  investment.  Mrs.  Ruthven,  directly  you  left 
town,  whisked  off  Mr.  Hartford  to  what 's  the  name 
of  the  place  ?  —  Eccram,  and  —  " 

Something  in  Gerald's  expression  arrested  her 
attention. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         215 

"  But  you  must  know  this ! " 
"And what?  Go  on." 

"Well,  I  don't  know  how  she  has  managed  it, 
but  Mr.  Hartford  is  engaged  to  Araby  Ruthven." 
"  Good  God ! "  said  Gerald,  in  spite  of  himself. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MISS  NORFOLK  looked  at  him  quickly.  But  she 
had  no  suspicion  that  his  feelings  towards  Araby 
were  other  than  those  of  the  good-natured  indiffer- 
ence with  which  she  had  always  associated  his 
attitude  to  girls. 

She  had  told  him  the  story  because,  as  she  had 
said,  she  wished  to  tell  some  one.  She  was  suffer- 
ing at  this  time  far  more  keenly  than  her  bare 
words  admitted.  She  could  talk  to  Gerald  as  she 
could  talk  to  no  one  else.  It  was  he  in  the  first  in- 
stance who  had  suggested  to  her  the  capture  of 
Hartford.  He  had  once  even  jokingly  said  to  her 
that  Hartford  and  she,  since  they  would  demand 
little  of  each  other  but  affectionate  toleration,  were 
eminently  qualified  for  the  relative  positions  of 
husband  and  wife.  Something  in  the  irony  of  her 
apparent  loss  of  him  seemed  too  humorous  a  thing 
to  keep  to  herself.  The  acknowledgment  that  she 
had  a  heart  came,  however,  necessarily  into  the 
story  she  was  telling,  and  was  an  explanation  per- 
haps of  much  that  was  obscure  in  a  character  that 
appeared  to  be  frankly  ingenuous. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         217 

There  was  another  pause.  The  servants  placed 
the  wine  upon  the  table  and  withdrew. 

Miss  Norfolk,  in  many  words,  had  made  her  con- 
fession. Gerald,  with  a  sudden  misgiving,  thought 
that  he  had  made  his  in  two.  But  he  was  wrong, 
for  as  yet  he  had  disclosed  nothing.  The  fact  that 
he  thought  he  had  betrayed  himself  kept  him  for 
a  few  moments  from  giving  voice  to  the  questions 
that  burned  to  be  asked.  By  the  time  that  he  had 
realized  that  it  was  unlikely  that  Miss  Norfolk  could 
have  guessed  a  secret  that  was  known  only  to  him- 
self, the  hostess,  who  ran  five  girls,  and  had  man- 
aged to  scrape  up  a  Personage  for  her  party  caught 
its  important  eye,  and  the  ladies  left  the  room. 

Gerald  found  himself  talking,  and  of  what  or  to 
whom  he  could  not  offhand  have  answered.  But 
he  always  remembered  afterwards  the  pattern  of 
the  table-cloth. 

The  short  service  system  was  the  ruin  of  the 
army  (there  were  roses  and  thistles  and  shamrocks 
in  shining  damask),  and  regiments  that  had  been 
the  pride  of  England  and  the  envy  of  her  enemies 
were  now  made  up  of  a  lot  of  boys  (roses  and  thistles 
and  shamrocks  with  curling  ribands).  .  .  .  Here 
came  a  long  gap.  Gerald  looked  at  the  man  who 
was  speaking,  but  he  grasped  nothing  of  his 


218         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

meaning.  "  By  Jove,"  they  said,  "  these  are  n't  the 
fellows  that  conquered  India."  There  was  another 
gap.  Gerald  had  returned  to  his  contemplation  of 
the  cloth.  A  bit  of  ash  dropped  on  it  from  his 
cigarette.  He  brushed  the  grey  dust  with  his  finger 
into  a  minute  heap,  and  then  fitted  it  to  the  shape 
of  one  of  the  woven  shamrock  leaves.  He  heard 
something  about  a  war,  about  Russia,  Napoleon, 
the  German  Emperor.  He  even  expressed  opinions, 
but  all  the  time  he  could  not  have  said  what  he  was 
discussing.  He  only  knew  that  Araby  was  lost  to 
him,  and  that  there  were  roses  and  thistles  and 
shamrocks  in  the  design  of  the  cloth. 

He  went  with  the  rest  to  the  ball,  for  which  he 
was  ostensibly  a  guest  in  the  house,  but  he  danced 
little,  and  was  so  generally  unresponsive  that  he 
incurred  the  displeasure  of  the  woman  who  had 
buried  three  men.  Possibly  it  was  the  fact  that 
each  of  the  three  had  left  her  with  a  contribution 
of  daughters  on  her  hands  that  made  her  so 
severe. 

"He  has  n't  asked  one  of  my  girls  to  dance," 
she  said  to  her  Personage.  "  He  did,  I  believe,  put 
down  Evelyn's  name  on  his  shirt-cuff,  but  then  he 
never  turned  up.  What  does  he  think  I  asked  him 
here  for?" 


TIME, AND  THE  WOMAN         219 

"  You  must  allow  he  is  very  ornamental,"  said 
her  Personage. 

"  Oh,  ornamental !"  said  the  mother  of  girls.  "  If 
I  could  only  say  what  I  think  of  them  to  some  of 
these  modern  young  men,  I  'd  make  them  dance." 

Her  Personage  thought  of  the  three  men  whom 
the  good  woman  herself  had  danced  into  marriage 
and  the  tomb,  and  said  Je  crois  bien  in  English. 

Gerald  meanwhile  was  awaiting  with  what 
patience  he  could  command,  an  opportunity  of 
continuing  his  interrupted  conversation  with  Miss 
Norfolk.  Despite  his  manoeuvring  to  get  into  the 
same  omnibus  with  her  for  the  eight-mile  drive, 
he  had  been  frustrated  by  his  hostess,  who  shut 
him  and  two  other  men  into  a  conveyance  with  no 
less  than  three  of  her  own  daughters. 

At  length  the  opportunity  he  was  waiting  for 
occurred.  Miss  Norfolk  had  arranged  her  dances 
up  to  a  certain  point,  and  then  had  left  a  gap  for 
Gerald. 

"When  did  you  hear  it?"  he  asked,  without 
preamble.  He  was  absorbed  by  one  subject  at  that 
moment,  and  it  did  not  occur  to  him  to  lead  up  to  it 
— nor  indeed  if  it  had  occurred  to  him  would  it  have 
seemed  necessary.  After  the  confessions  of  Miss 
Norfolk  at  dinner,  he  did  not  greatly  care  whether 


220         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

he  allowed  his  interest  in  Araby  to  be  guessed  or 
not.  Miss  Norfolk,  if  this  was  her  object,  had  so 
far  succeeded  in  attaining  it  that,  by  her  burst  of 
confidence,  she  had  established  between  them  a 
far  closer  friendship  than  had  ever  before  existed. 

"  I  heard  it  last  week.  I  knew  that  Mr.  Hartford 
had  gone  up  to  Eccram  with  Mrs.  Ruthven,  be- 
cause mamma  heard  it  from  Mrs.  Sandon.  Well, 
I  was  at  school  with  a  girl  called  Cora  Pine,  whose 
father  is  Vicar  of  Eccram.  I  naturally  wanted  to 
know  what  Mr.  Hartford  had  been  asked  up  there 
for,  so  I  revived  a  correspondence  which  had  flour- 
ished once  between  Miss  Pine  and  myself,  and 
which  with  years  had  languished  and  died.  There 
once  existed  between  us  that  sort  of  feminine  friend- 
ship, don't  you  know,  that  expresses  itself  in  notes 
beginning  *  Dearest.'  I  believe  we  even  promised 
to  tell  each  other  everything.  I  can  safely  say  that 
Cora  Pine  knows  about  as  little  of  me  as  any  girl 
I  know.  But  this  is  all  beside  the  point.  I  wrote  to 
Cora  Pine  and  reminded  her  of  old  times,  and  then 
I  touched  quite  casually  upon  the  fact  that  friends 
of  mine  were,  I  believed,  neighbours  of  hers." 

"  And  then  —  ?" 

"  Well,  then  —  what  a  lovely  waltz  !  —  does  n't 
the  band  play  well  ?  You  must  give  me  a  dance 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         221 

presently  —  Well,  then,  I  got  a  letter  from  her.  Six 
pages.  Three  on  end  about  our  old  friendship,  and 
another  about  her  brother  Herbert,  who  has  grown 
up,  and  whom  she  is  evidently  very  proud  of.  I 
remember  him  as  an  insufferably  shy  and  lanky 
boy.  The  other  two  pages  were  devoted  to  the 
party  at  the  Hall,  and  they  followed,  I  found,  very 
naturally  upon  the  one  which  she  devoted  to  her 
brother.  (Her  pages,  you  must  understand,  are 
good  honest  conscientious  pages  —  thirty  or  forty 
lines  to  the  painstaking  page ! )  It  seems  that  the 
lanky  brother  who  has  grown  so  handsome — a 
thing  I  do  not  and  will  not  believe !  —  has  conceived 
a  romantic  attachment  for  Miss  Ruthven.  Are  you 
listening?" 

Gerald  changed  his  position.  The  light  from  a 
lamp  fell  thus  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  his 
face  was  in  shadow.  The  dance  had  come  to  an 
end,  and  people  began  to  pass  along  the  corridor 
at  one  end  of  which  Miss  Norfolk  and  he  were  sit- 
ting. A  girl  stopped  near,  hanging  back  from  her 
partner  to  tear  a  strip  of  stuff  from  the  bottom  of 
her  dress.  Miss  Norfolk  was  somehow  reminded 
of  the  work-room  in  Sloane  Street,  of  Anne,  of 
Dennis  Leigh,  and  she  caught  her  lower  lip  tightly 
between  her  teeth. 


222         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Yes,  I  'm  listening/'  said  Gerald,  presently,  see- 
ing that  she  was  silent.  "  Please  go  on." 

But  Miss  Norfolk  had  lost  herself  in  reverie. 

"  Where  had  I  got  to  ?  I  beg  your  pardon." 

"You  said  that  Mr.  Pine — was  it?  —  had  con- 
ceived an  attachment  for  Miss  Ruthven." 

"  They  were  great  friends  always,  Cora  tells  me, 
and  when  he  saw  her  this  time  —  Cora 's  romantic 
—  oh,  bursting  with  romance !  —  she  knew  that  he 
had  met  his  fate.  She  said  that  to  herself  when  she 
saw  them  skating  together  —  " 

"They  skated  together  ..."  said  Gerald. 

"  Yes.  Then  down  pounced  Mrs.  Ruthven  with 
Mr.  Hartford,  and  in  a  fortnight  he  and  Miss  Ruth- 
ven were  engaged,  and  Cora  says  —  Oh,  they  have 
begun  to  play  again,  and  you  must  dance  this  with 
me." 

"  In  a  minute  then,"  said  Gerald.  "  What  does 
Miss  Pine  say  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  miss  any  of  it,"  said  Miss  Nor- 
folk, rising  to  her  feet.  "  Come  along,  I  '11  tell  you 
as  we  dance." 

He  allowed  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and  joined 
the  stream  that  flowed  into  the  ball-room.  There 
Miss  Norfolk  made  him  dance.  She  was  light  her- 
self and  supple,  and  presently  Gerald  was  dancing 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         223 

for  his  own  pleasure.  His  hostess  saw  him,  and 
also  that  two  of  her  own  girls  were  standing  by 
the  door,  and  she  made  her  comments  freely. 

"She  sat  out  the  last  dance  with  him,"  said 
Evelyn,  whose  name  was  on  his  shirt-cuff  against 
a  number  which  he  had  never  claimed. 

"  And  she  asked  him  to  dance  this,"  said  her 
step-sister.  "  I  heard  her." 

"When  he  asks  me  for  another,"  said  Evelyn 
significantly,  "  I  shall  refuse  it." 

"  But  he  won't  ask  you,"  said  the  step-sister. 

"And  Miss  Pine  says — ?"  said  Gerald  when 
the  dance  was  over,  continuing  the  conversation 
where  it  had  left  off,  and  as  if  there  had  been  no 
interval  to  break  it. 

"Says,"  says  Miss  Norfolk,  "that  she  be- 
lieves that  Mrs.  Ruthven  —  may  I  use  Cora's  own 
words  ?  " 

Gerald  nodded. 

"  Well,  has  bullied  her  daughter  into  it." 

There  was  silence.  Gerald  said  something  under 
his  breath. 

"Anything  more?"  said  Gerald  at  last. 

"Yes,  a  little.  But  why  does  all  this  interest 
you?" 

"  The  Ruthvens  are  friends  of  mine." 


224         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Perhaps  I  ought  n't  to  have  told  you ! " 

Gerald  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Why  does  Miss  Pine  think  that  force  was 
brought  to  bear  upon  Miss  Ruthven  ?  " 

"  Because  Miss  Ruthven  does  n't  seem  happy." 

Gerald  made  some  sound.  It  was  scarcely  an 
exclamation.  Miss  Norfolk  looked  at  him  again. 
An  expression  of  question  and  wonder  was  upon 
her  own  face.  It  was  slowly  forming  itself  to  one 
of  surprised  conviction. 

"  Cora  Pine  thinks  Miss  Ruthven  is  fretting 
for  some  one  else.  Girls  do  fret  sometimes.  She 
thought  at  first  that  she  had  had  some  disappoint- 
ment. She  says  that  she  thought  that  when  Miss 
Ruthven  arrived,  but  now  she  thinks  that  it  is  her 
brother  that  she  cares  for.  But  I  think  —  " 

"What?" 

"  Oh,  Cora  Pine  has  let  her  own  bias  blunt  her 
judgment.  She  is  inordinately  fond  of  this  brother." 

"  You  don't  think  it  likely  ?  " 

"Think  what  likely?" 

"  That  Miss  Ruthven  cares  for  him  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  should  n't  take  it  on  the  authority  of 
Cora  Pine.  You  see  she  gives  herself  away  when 
she  says  that  she  thinks  Miss  Ruthven  arrived  at 
Eccram  unhappy." 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         225 

Gerald  leant  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  Miss 
Norfolk  looked  at  him  —  steadily,  now  that  he  did 
not  see  her,  but  she  had  only  a  partial  view  of  his 
face.  His  attitude,  however,  seemed  to  her  elo- 
quent. She  remembered  afterwards  that  the  pink 
of  his  hunt-coat  was  reflected  in  a  rosy  glow 
upon  his  cheek,  and  that  his  feet  —  his  legs  were 
crossed,  and  the  elbow  of  the  arm  that  supported 
his  head  rested  upon  his  knee  —  were  long  and 
slender. 

"If  one  could  only  know  the  truth,'*  he  said. 
He  was  talking  as  much  to  himself  as  to  her. 

"  I  could  easily  find  it  out,"  said  Miss  Norfolk. 

He  raised  his  head. 

"How?" 

"  By  going  to  Eccram." 

"Eccram?" 

"  To  the  Vicarage,  I  mean,  not  the  Hall.  Cora 
Pine  asks  me." 

"Shall  you  go?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  'm  asked  to  fix  my  own  time." 

"Miss  Norfolk." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Ventnor." 

"I  'm  going  to  ask  you  to  do  something  for  me, 
and  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  what  I  have  n't  told  to 
a  living  soul." 


226         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Miss  Norfolk  trembled  a  little,  and  was  silent 
and  waited. 

"  Will  you  go  to  Eccram  ?  Will  you  find  out 
what  is  going  on  there  ?  You '  ve  been  frank  enough 
with  me  to-night,  and  I  '11  be  equally  frank.  I  — 
laugh  at  me  if  you  like  —  yes,  Araby  Ruthven.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  am  hard  hit,  I  tell  you,  when  I  can  talk  of  it 
like  this.  But  I  can't  lose  her.  I  can't,  and  you  can 
help  me.  Can't  you  ?  Won't  you  ?  If  she  is  engaged 
to  Hartford  of  her  own  free  will,  well  and  good. 
I  am  human,  and  I  shan't  die,  and  in  time  I  dare 
say  I  shall  get  over  it ;  but  if  she  is  n't  she  just 
shan't  be  made  to  marry  him.  Not  that  he  is  n't  a 
good  chap  enough,  but  she  shan't  be  forced  into 
anything." 

"  When  did  it  happen  ?  "  said  Miss  Norfolk,  as 
soon  as  she  could  get  in  a  word.  "  It  never  oc- 
curred to  me  that  you  went  to  Primate  Street  — 
forgive  me  —  to  see  Miss  Ruthven." 

Gerald  smiled. 

"I  didn't,"  he  said.  "You're  perfectly  right. 
How  can  I  say  when  it  happened?  The  minute 
she  was  gone,  I  think.  No  — just  before  that.  You 
remember  the  night  we  went  to  the  play.  Do  you 
remember  anything  that  happened  that  night?" 

Miss  Norfolk  shook  her  head. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         227 

"  Only  that  you  disappeared  for  most  of  an  act, 
and  that  Mrs.  Ruthven  did  n't  like  it." 

"Do  you  know  where  I  went?  To  put  Araby 
into  a  cab  after  her  concert." 

Miss  Norfolk  gave  a  little  exclamation. 

"  I  believe  it  was  then,"  he  said.  "  I  could  n't 
bear  to  think  of  her  in  Piccadilly,  and  I  was  just  in 
time.  I  believe  I  had  scarcely  thought  of  her  till 
that  moment,  and  since  —  well,  I '  ve  never  stopped 
thinking  of  her.  It  was  sudden,  if  you  like,  but 
it  was  gradual  too,  for  all  the  time  the  beauty  of 
her  nature  must  have  been  making  its  impression 
on  me.  I  can't  explain." 

But  Miss  Norfolk  now  was  not  listening.  She 
interrupted  him  just  to  satisfy  herself  that  Araby 's 
mother  had  not  been  told,  and  learned  incidentally 
from  his  reluctance  to  speak  of  it  that  Araby  had 
urged  silence.  She  knew  enough  then  to  make 
everything  plain  to  her.  Was  it  not  the  next  day 
—  no,  the  next  day  but  one  —  that  Araby,  like  a 
stone  from  a  catapult,  had  been  shot  off  to  Eccram  ? 
It  was  not  many  minutes  before  Miss  Norfolk 
knew  the  exact  nature  of  the  complexion  which 
Mrs.  Ruthven  had  put  upon  Gerald's  action.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  had  said  that  she  had  sent  him  herself ! 

"  I  '11   go  to  Eccram  from  here.    I  '11  write  to 


228         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Cora  Pine  to-night.  There'll  be  time  for  an  an- 
swer." 

Gerald's  hand  held  hers  for  a  moment. 

"  It 's  good  of  you." 

But  she  only  said  in  her  every-day  tone  that,  as 
he  must  see,  there  were  Others. 


CHAPTER  XX 

Miss  NORFOLK  had  in  no  way  misrepresented  the 
facts  of  the  case  to  Gerald  in  telling  him  that  she 
had  given  Dennis  Leigh  to  Anne.  It  was  indeed  a 
case  of  rebound,  but  only  the  decisiveness  of  Miss 
Norfolk's  answer  had  given  the  impetus  which 
sent  him,  as  she  expressed  it,  from  the  woman  who 
had  refused  him  to  the  nearest  woman  he  liked. 
Miss  Norfolk,  despite  her  calculating  way  of  talk- 
ing and  her  almost  brutal  frankness  in  dissecting 
her  own  motives ;  despite  her  cold-blooded  discus- 
sion of  marriage  as  a  means ;  despite,  in  fact,  the 
Miss  Norfolk  which  she  chose  to  show  to  the 
world,  was  full  of  generous  impulses,  and  her  feel- 
ings were  far  deeper  than  she  had  admitted  even 
to  Gerald.  She  had  spoken  of  Dennis  Leigh  lightly 
enough,  for  although  she  had  declared  herself  fond 
of  him,  she  had  done  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  convey 
a  very  inadequate  impression  of  the  value  of  her 
affections. 

She  was  guided,  however,  more  by  her  head 
than  her  heart,  and  she  preferred  rather  to  suffer 
for  the  wisdom  that  told  her  that  she  could  not 


230         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

endure  poverty  even  with  love,  than  to  accept  tran- 
sient happiness  at  the  cost  of  lasting  discomfort. 
She  knew  herself  well  enough  to  be  fully  conscious 
that  she  was  not  made  for  economy.  There  were 
of  course  many  little  economies  which  had  to  be 
practised  in  Sloane  Street ;  and  these  she  practised 
with  cheerfulness,  always  hating  them,  but  regard- 
ing them  as  a  passing  evil  from  which  the  good 
marriage  which  she  was  determined  to  make  would 
open  a  way  of  escape.  So  it  was  with  deliberation 
that  she  was  enduring  at  this  time  the  very  real 
unhappiness  of  having  dismissed  her  lover. 

It  was  for  the  sake  of  Anne  that  the  dismissal 
was  given  with  the  altruistic  lie  that  gave  it  its  air 
of  finality.  But  for  the  sister  whose  tender  secret 
had  been  disclosed  to  her,  first  by  the  irrepressible 
Netty,  and  then  by  a  hundred  little  observations  of 
her  own,  Miss  Norfolk  might  well  have  kept  Leigh 
dangling  on.  If  she  had  done  this  she  would,  as  it 
turned  out,  have  been  able  to  follow  the  dictates  of 
heart  and  head  which  would  for  once  have  joined 
in  a  common  cause.  That  she  did  not  know  this  at 
the  time  may  have  discounted  any  merit  that  her 
action  might  be  said  to  have  possessed,  since  she 
only  gave  away  what  she  felt  that  she  could  not 
keep ;  but  it  must  be  remembered  that  she  could, 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         231 

if  she  had  wished  it,  have  refused  her  lover  in 
such  a  way  as  to  have  kept  him  her  lover  still, 
or  indeed,  having  refused  him,  have  recalled  him 
when  his  good  fortune  came  to  him.  She  claimed 
then  no  more  than  she  deserved.  But  in  saying 
that  she  thought  he  was  happy,  she  spoke  rather 
from  her  wish  and  her  hope  than  her  definite 
knowledge. 

Dennis  coming  straight  from  Harry,  and  smart- 
ing actively  under  the  pain  of  his  rejection,  had 
met  Anne  in  Sloane  Street.  She  was  carrying  a 
small  canvas  and  some  brushes.  He  was  going  to 
pass  her  by,  but  something  in  his  face  arrested  her 
attention,  and  she  put  out  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  matter?"  she  said,  apprehen- 
sively. 

He  was  suffering  acutely,  and  almost  before  he 
was  aware  of  his  intention,  he  had  given  voice 
to  his  woe. 

Anne  listened  to  him  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said  at  last,  and  trem- 
bling. "  I  don't  believe  she  does  n't  care  for  you. 
She  is  deceiving  herself." 

Dennis  shook  his  head. 

Anne  had  turned  about,  and  she  walked  down 
with  him  as  far  as  Sloane  Square. 


232         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  I  am  sorry,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  I  am  sorry." 
He  held  her  hand  gratefully  when  she  said  good- 
bye, and  looked  long  into  her  eyes.  He  saw  for  the 
first  time  a  likeness  in  her  to  her  sister.  It  was  the 
merest  family  likeness.  Netty  and  Ethel  had  it  far 
more  strongly,  and  one  could  trace  it  even  in  the 
twins.  But  he  saw  it  in  Anne  then,  and,  taken  in 
conjunction  with  her  sympathy,  it  brought  about 
certain  results. 

Abbot  was  away  at  this  time.  He  had  scraped 
together  sufficient  money  to  enable  him  to  pay  a 
long-deferred  visit  to  some  relations  in  the  North, 
and  Dennis  was  alone.  He  had  just  then  a  dire 
need  of  some  one  to  whom  he  could  talk  of  him- 
self and  his  unhappiness.  This  was  in  itself  a  sign 
that  he  was  not  in  his  normal  condition.  He  tried 
to  write,  and  he  could  not.  His  London  letters 
cost  him  horrible  trouble.  He  put  them  off  till  the 
last  moment,  and  wrote  them  under  the  stress  of 
dire  urgency.  He  could  not  afford  to  risk  the  con- 
sequences of  having  them  late.  He  forced  them 
from  a  barren  pen.  He  posted  them  with  the  pleas- 
ing knowledge  that  they]  were  sufficiently  dull 
and  unreadable  to  jeopardize  his  commission,  even 
though  they  were  punctual.  After  all,  what  mat- 
ter ?  He  had  nothing  to  work  for.  Of  what  conse- 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         233 

quence  was  it  whether  he  struggled  to  live  or  not  ? 
Then  he  thought  of  Anne. 

Some  men  came  in  to  smoke.  He  sat  silent 
amongst  them,  and  they  had  to  remind  him  of  hos- 
pitable duties  in  connection  with  the  whisky-bottle 
and  soda-water.  One  of  his  guests  made  up  the 
fire  for  him.  It  was  falling  low,  and  he  had  not 
remarked  it.  When  twelve  struck  he  said  some- 
thing which  had  been  on  his  tongue  for  an  hour. 

"  I  'm  very  sorry.  I  don't  know  what  you  '11  all 
think  of  me.  I  must  get  you  fellows  to  go.  I  'm 
out  of  sorts  to-night." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  sympathy. 

"  Poor  old  chap.  Dear  old  Leigh,  why  did  n't 
you  tell  us?" 

There  was  a  getting  up,  and  a  looking  for 
hats. 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  said  Dennis.  "  Come  another 
night,  like  good  men.  I  'm  not  myself  to-night." 

"  Anything  one  could  do  for  you  ?  " 

"Nothing,  thanks.  Only  forgive  me  for  being 
such  bad  company.  Good-night.  Have  some  more 
whisky  before  you  go.  Won't  you  ?  I  feel  an 
awful  boor  for  sending  you  away." 

The  men  —  there  were  four  of  them  —  shook 
his  hand  warmly,  protesting  that  it  was  not  a  mat- 


234  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 
ter  for  apology,  and  they  quite  understood.  When 
they  had  taken  their  departure  he  wondered  what 
they  said  outside,  and  regretted  that  he  had  not 
borne  with  them  for  another  hour.  They  had  not 
been  gone  five  minutes  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  his  door.  He  opened  it  and  saw  one  of  them 
had  returned. 

"Saltash?" 

"  Yes.  I  won't  keep  you  a  minute.  No,  I  won't 
come  in.  Dennis,  tell  me  something." 

"What?" 

"Is  it  money?  Forgive  me.  If  fifty  pounds 
would  be  any  good  —  " 

"  No,  it  is  n't  money.  My  dear  George  1 " 

Leigh  took  his  hand  and  wrung  it. 

"You  are  sure?" 

"  Quite  sure.  But  how  am  I  to  thank  you?  " 

"  Well,  that 's  all.  No,  I  won't  come  in.  Good- 
bye, Dennis.  I  wish  you  well  through  it,  whatever 
it  is.  If  I  don't  come  to  look  you  up,  it  will  be 
because  I  am  out  of  town.  Good-night,  old  boy." 

He  ran  downstairs,  and  Leigh  shut  the  door. 
He  went  to  the  fireplace,  and  stood  there  thinking 
how  full  of  kindness  the  world  was  still.  Thence 
he  thought  of  Anne.  Then  he  wished  to  talk  to 
Anne  —  he  wished  somehow  to  tell  her  of  the  good- 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         235 

ness  of  his  friend  Saltash.  Above  all,  he  wished  to 
see  her  because  she  reminded  him  of  Harry. 

So  it  came  that  Dennis  Leigh  met  Anne  Nor- 
folk at  the  door  of  the  studio  on  the  following  day, 
and  walked  back  with  her  to  Sloane  Street.  Anne 
timidly  approached  Harriet  that  night. 

"  Harry." 

"Well,  sister  Anne?" 

"  I  want  to  say  something  to  you." 

"  Say  on,  sister  Anne." 

Then  Anne,  emboldened,  and  fighting1  for  one 
who  was  dearer  to  her  than  all  else  the  world 
contained,  pleaded  the  cause  of  Dennis. 

"  It 's  no  good,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  when  she 
had  heard  her  sister  to  an  end.  "  I  've  given  him 
an  answer.  I  have  n't  much  in  the  way  of  a  mind, 
sister  Anne,  as  minds  go,  but  when  I  make  it  up 
I  abide  by  it." 

"  Oh,  Harry,  he  is  so  unhappy.  I  would  n't 
say  anything,  but  I  don't  think  you  are  happy 
either  —  " 

"Anne!" 

"  Oh,  I  must  say  it,  Harry.  I  can't  help  think- 
ing that  you  do  care  for  him.  Don't  you  ?  Don't 
you,  Harry?  Why  won't  you  be  fair  to  your- 
self?" 


236         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"I  don't  care  for  anybody,"  said  Miss  Norfolk. 
But  she  said  it  in  a  voice  that  somehow  left  her 
sister  unconvinced. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  don't  care  for  him  ?  Could  n't 
you  get  to  care  for  him  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  get  to  care  for 
him  —  " 

Anne  could  not  know  that  inwardly  the  sentence 
was  not  left  unfinished.  Nor  could  she  know  that 
when  she  left  the  room  her  sister  buried  her  face 
in  the  pillows  on  her  bed. 

So  Leigh  continued  to  meet  Anne  at  the  studio 
door,  and  not  many  days  passed  before  he  offered 
to  her  the  pieces  of  his  shattered  heart. 

"Of  course  you  must  say  yes/'  said  Miss 
Norfolk,  decidedly. 

Anne  was  deceived,  and  she  dwelt  in  the  Seventh 
Heaven. 

When  there  came  the  change  in  the  prospects  of 
Dennis,  Harry  went  away  to  stay  in  country 
houses.  Netty  wrote  her  accounts  of  the  happiness 
of  Anne. 

"We  are  so  much  in  love,"  ran  one  of  these 
letters,  "that  Art,  even  Art,  plays  second  fiddle. 
We  meant  to  have  painted  a  big  picture  for  the 
Academy,  but  I  don't  think  that  we  shall  now. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         237 

We  hear  from  Dennis  most  days,  though  we  see 
him  every  day,  and  we  write  to  him  constantly. 
We  wear  odder  hats  than  ever,  but  we  have  grown 
very  pretty.  We  are  very  happy,  and — the  house 
for  such  as  are  not  in  love  is  rather  dull." 

All  of  which  but  little  expresses  the  joy  of  Anne. 
She  was  another  girl.  Every  day  as  it  broke  was  a 
new  ecstasy.  She  marvelled  that  it  should  be  to 
her  that  this  great  good  had  come.  Sometimes  she 
had  a  misgiving  that  the  Fates  must  have  erred  in 
showering  it  upon  her,  and  that  sooner  or  later 
they  would  find  out  that  after  all  she  was  only 
Anne,  and  they  would  take  it  away  from  her.  But 
generally  her  heart  was  too  light  for  misgivings 
or  presentiments. 

But  the  change  in  the  fortunes  of  Dennis  Leigh, 
which  for  Anne  added  nothing  to  his  attraction, 
and  only  seemed  good  in  so  far  as  it  benefitted 
him  and  made  the  possibility  of  marriage  less  re- 
mote, unsettled  him  in  spite  of  himself.  It  made 
him  think  of  Harry  once  more,  and  it  made  him 
speculate  as  to  what  her  answer  might  have  been 
if  his  uncle's  young  wife  had  eloped  just  a  few 
weeks  sooner. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MRS.  RUTH  YEN  had  never  accomplished  anything 
with  less  difficulty  than  the  engagement  of  Hart- 
ford "  to  Araby.  There  was  a  certain  analogy  be- 
tween the  case  of  these  two  and  that  of  Dennis 
Leigh  and  Anne  Norfolk.  Dennis  was  in  love  with 
Harry,  who  refused  him,  and  so  passed  on  to  Anne. 
Hartford  was  under  the  spell  of  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
Araby  was  at  hand. 

Araby  made  little  resistance.  Nothing,  it  must 
be  remembered,  had  passed  between  her  and 
Gerald.  Araby,  struggling  at  this  time  to  appraise 
things  justly,  realized  this  to  her  own  young  de- 
spair. She  had  been  foolish  enough  to  give  her 
whole  heart  to  one  who  had  not  asked  for  it.  That, 
speaking  roughly,  was  her  own  doing.  Almost  un- 
consciously the  apparently  trifling  falsehood  which 
her  mother  had  told  her,  even  though  Araby,  sus- 
pecting it  to  be  a  falsehood,  imagined  that  she  was 
placing  no  reliance  upon  it,  served  to  strengthen 
her  conviction  that  Gerald  meant  nothing  by  even 
such  scant  attention  as  he  had  shown  her.  Why 
should  he  mean  anything?  She  was  very  unhappy. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         239 

She  knew  that  life  with  her  mother  was  impossible. 
She  was  lonely.  She  looked  on  into  the  future  with 
growing  dread.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Gerald  had 
only  come  into  her  life  to  disquiet  it  further.  She 
tried  to  put  him  from  her.  He  had  only  caused  her 
pain.  Let  her  forget  him  ;  but  she  could  not  harden 
her  heart  against  him. 

It  was  when  the  knowledge  that  she  could  not 
continue  to  bear  the  relations  that  existed  between 
her  and  her  mother  was  most  clear  to  her,  that 
Hartford's  offer  pointed  to  a  way  of  escape.  She 
saw  with  alarm  that  it  was  in  the  light  of  a  way  of 
escape  that  she  regarded  it. 

The  blue  weather  that  succeeded  the  snow  she 
associated  afterwards  with  a  period  of  perplexity 
such  as  had  never  before  fallen  to  her.  She  gave 
no  decided  answer  at  once.  She  asked  for  two 
days'  grace,  and  she  employed  them  in  trying  to 
think  out  her  position.  She  had  no  one  to  consult 
She  shrank  with  a  chivalrous  loyalty  to  her  mother 
from  confiding  in  the  Miss  Woottons.  She  had 
never  told  them  of  her  unhappiness.  To  ask  their 
advice  in  this  crisis  would  have  been  to  confess  to 
what  she  had  borne  in  the  last  six  months,  and  she 
had  the  strongest  aversion  to  admitting  the  facts 
which  she  had  hitherto  concealed.  She  took  long 


240         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

walks,  and  did  battle  with  herself.  Gaunt  elms  bore 
witness  to  her  suffering — and  once  a  human  being. 
This  was  Cora  Pine.  Miss  Pine  had  taken  a  rooted 
dislike  to  Mrs.  Ruthven.  It  had  chanced  on  the 
next  day  after  Mrs.  Ruthven's  arrival  at  Eccram 
that,  in  Eccram  church,  Miss  Pine  gathered  some- 
thing of  the  nature,  and  its  significance,  of  Mrs. 
Ruthven's  manner  to  her  daughter.  Miss  Pine  was 
in  the  organ-loft,  and  Mrs.  Ruthven,  down  below 
and  unconscious  of  her  presence,  snubbed  Araby, 
who  was  showing  her  the  windows.  What  was  said 
does  not  concern  us.  It  was  only  a  few  stinging 
words  such  as  Araby  had  often  heard  before,  but 
Cora  Pine  flushed  crimson  in  the  darkness  of  the 
loft,  and  there  was  after  that  one  person  in  Eccram 
who  did  not  like  Mrs.  Ruthven. 

It  was  ten  days  later,  and  on  the  second  of  the 
two  days  which  Araby  had  asked  for  the  consider- 
ation of  the  proposal  of  Hartford,  that  Miss  Pine 
had  a  further  glimpse  of  her  unhappiness.  Araby 
was  walking  back  from  Long  Eccram  woods,  whither 
;'  her  unrest  had  taken  her.  The  day  was  fine.  A 
warm  sunlight  that  was  the  first  promise  of  spring 
lit  up  the  morning.  The  brown  hedgerows  were 
alive  with  birds  that  twittered.  A  chaffinch  for  some 
two  hundred  yards  preceded  Araby  as  she  walked, 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         241 

darting  from  its  twig  as  she  approached  it  to  an- 
other at  a  short  distance  farther  on.  There  had 
been  rain.  The  grass  in  the  fields  was  in  patches 
green,  to  the  limit  of  bright  green,  and  against  it 
the  red  of  grazing  cattle  stood  out  with  insistence. 
A  horse  looked  over  a  gate.  Araby  paused  abruptly 
to  pat  his  head.  Some  black  pigs  in  another  field 
gazed  inquisitively  at  the  lonely  girl  as  she  passed 
them.  They  grunted  and  scampered  away.  The 
sky  was  flecked  with  white  clouds  which  were  daz- 
zling in  the  sunlight.  It  was  a  day  for  rejoicing. 
Nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  off  the  shackles  of 
winter,  and  to  be  revelling  in  the  delight  of  a  fore- 
taste of  the  days  that  were  to  come. 

Araby  left  the  road  to  cross  the  fields.  Suddenly 
the  very  beauty  and  exuberance  of  the  day  over- 
came her.  She  felt  herself  to  be  outside  all  these 
glad  things  that  were  singing,  and  she  sat  down 
upon  a  felled  tree  and  cried.  She  did  not  see  nor 
care  that  the  green  of  the  bark  stained  her  serge 
dress.  Nothing  mattered.  Gerald  was  not  for  her, 
and  it  was  of  very  little  importance  for  whom  she 
herself  was  destined.  A  couple  of  colts,  all  legs  and 
slenderness,  ventured  near  to  her,  and  then  took 
alarm  at  their  own  temerity,  and  cantered  away 
immaturely.  She  did  not  heed  them.  This  was  the 


242         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

final  struggle ;  when  it  was  over  she  would  dry  her 
eyes. 

She  rose  after  a  time.  She  saw  then  the  damp 
green  powder  that  clung  to  the  rough  nap  on  her 
skirt,  and  she  brushed  away  as  much  of  it  as  she 
could  so  dislodge,  and  went  on  her  way.  Her  lips 
no  longer  trembled,  but  no  one  who  saw  her  face, 
white  and  pink,  could  have  doubted  that  she  had 
been  crying. 

It  was  thus  that  she  met  Cora  Pine.  Miss  Pine 
was  nothing  if  not  parochial,  and  she  was  on  her 
rounds  with  the  parish  magazine.  Many  a  penny 
which  might  have  procured  such  delights  as  the 
"Family  Herald"  or  the  "London  Journal"  was 
produced  reluctantly  from  a  mug  on  a  cottage 
shelf  to  buy  this  periodical,  the  cover  of  which  was 
under  the  editorship  of  the  Vicar's  daughter. 

"  Such  a  busy  morning,"  she  said,  energetically. 
"I've been  all  round  the  Green  —  every  house  ex- 
cept the  Hares',  where  the  children  have  got 
measles — and  down  the  London  road  as  far  as  the 
forge,  and  then  across  to  the  Jenkins',  and  up  to 
the  Hill  Farm,  where  I  went  for  nothing,  because 
Mrs.  Attley  would  n't  take  a  copy — says  she  can't 
spare  the  penny  from  the  housekeeping;  fancy, 
when  they  were  having  pork  for  dinner — I  saw  it 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         243 

on  the  kitchen  table  —  with  apple-sauce  too !  And 
now  I  have  to  go  to  four  houses  in  Long  Eccram. 
You  don't  do  any  parish  work  now? " 

"You  see  I  am  a  visitor,"  said  Araby. 

"  You  've  been  crying,"  said  Miss  Pine,  with  sud- 
denness and  no  tact. 

Araby  coloured  deeply.  Miss  Pine  tried  to  re- 
trieve her  unfortunate  speech  and  blundered  fur- 
ther. She  said  something  about  her  brother  Her- 
bert, who  had  gone  away. 

"You  see  he  has  only  his  profession,"  she  said. 

It  was  then  two  crimson  girls  who  stood  in  the 
field.  They  felt  that  the  subject  must  be  changed 
before  they  went  on  their  several  ways.  Araby  had 
a  nervous  fear  that  Cora  would  kiss  her. 

"Isn't  it  ...  doesn't  the  sun  .  .  ."  began 
Araby,  desperately.  She  paused  and  recovered  her- 
self. "  I  mean,  one  appreciates  a  day  like  this  after 
the  long  winter,  does  n't  one?  " 

"  It  cheers  one  up,"  said  Miss  Pine,  without  any 
marked  self-possession.  "The  trees  will  soon  be 
budding,  won't  they  ?  There  was  a  crocus  out  in 
our  garden  this  morning  —  at  least  something  was 
out,  I  forget  what,  but  perhaps  it  was  n't  a  crocus. 
I  must  be  getting  on.  If  Long  Eccram  was  n't  so 
far,  I  'd  ask  you  to  turn  about  and  walk  with  me. 


244         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

I  'm  going  to  the  Greens'  and  the  Hebbleth waites' 
and  old  Appleby's  —  " 

"  I  'm  going  home  to  lunch,"  said  Araby. 

"  I  am  so  annoyed  at  Mrs.  Attley's  giving  up  the 
Magazine  —  and  with  pork  for  dinner,"  said  Miss 
Pine.  "  Don't  you  find  that  little  things  quite  put 
you  out  sometimes  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Araby,  "  little  things  put  me  out." 

"  And  they  might  easily  have  done  without 
apple-sauce,  and  spared  the  penny  for  the  Mag- 
azine. I  don't  know  that  it  was  the  pork  that 
seemed  to  me  so  extravagant  as  the  apple-sauce. 
Polly  Attley,  the  little  lame  one,  you  know,  was 
peeling  them  —  the  apples,  I  mean.  And  I  have  a 
Magazine  left  on  my  hands  ;  it  is  too  bad  1 " 

"  Let  me  take  it  from  you." 

"  But  the  Miss  Woottons  have  had  theirs.  I  al- 
ways send  them  to  the  big  houses  first.  I  am  afraid 
the  ones  for  the  parish  are  very  late  this  month. 
Still,  if  you  will  have  one  it  will  put  my  accounts 
right.  You  see  I  enter  them  in  the  book  before 
taking  them  round." 

The  girls  parted. 

Miss  Pine  had  drawn  many  conclusions. 

Araby  walked  fast,  and  with  flushed  cheeks. 

"  She  thinks  I'm  in  love  with  her  brother,"  she 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         245 

said  to  herself.  "  I !  —  with  Herbert  Pine !  She  apol- 
ogized as  it  were  for  his  going  away  !  Oh !  Oh ! 
Oh  !  I  'm  so  angry  with  her.  I  shall  never  be  able 
to  like  her  again.  It  was  dreadful.  It  was  dreadful. 
Oh  „  .  .  Gerald ! " 

She  burst  into  tears  again.  Her  pride,  which  had 
called  these  forth,  presently  dried  them.  A  brook 
with  soft  gurglings  ran  through  the  meadow.  It 
was  shallow  and  clear  and  clean.  Araby  knelt  down 
beside  it  on  a  flat  dry  stone,  and  dipped  her  hand- 
kerchief into  the  water.  Then  she  washed  her  face 
and  dried  it  as  best  she  could  upon  the  damp 
cambric,  which,  naturally,  no  amount  of  wringing 
would  make  quite  dry.  After  that  she  felt  better. 

She  took  Cora  Pine's  Magazine  and  stuck  it  in 
a  hedge. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHETHER  the  indignation  that  resulted  from  her 
meeting  with  Cora  Pine  hastened  her  decision  or 
not,  Araby  accepted  Hartford  that  afternoon. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  professed  herself  overjoyed,  and 
kissed  her  daughter,  and  every  one  else. 

The  Miss  Woottons,  who  had  in  the  beginning 
regarded  the  arrival  of  the  young  man  with  as 
much  trepidation  as  if  some  unfamiliar  animal,  of 
whose  probable  habits  they  were  absolutely  ignor- 
ant, proposed  to  make  its  abode  with  them,  had,  as 
their  gaunt  timidity  wore  off,  taken  a  great  fancy  to 
Hartford.  He  annoyed  them  in  nothing.  He  for- 
bore to  smoke  in  the  dining-room  after  dinner,  and 
made  himself  quite  happy  in  a  little  room  off  the 
library,  which  was  turned  into  a  smoking-room  on 
his  account,  as  soon  as  it  was  understood  by  the 
Miss  Woottons  that  to  smoke  was  one  of  the  habits 
of  his  kind.  Hither  Mrs.  Ruthven,  sometimes  bring- 
ing Araby,  sometimes  alone,  accompanied  him  at 
night.  Whisky  and  soda-water  (from  the  grocer's 
in  Eccram  village)  made  their  appearance  there, 
when  the  Miss  Woottons  had  further  gathered  that 


\TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         247 

these  came  under  the  head  of  the  natural  food,  or 
rather,  the  natural  drink  of  the  male. 

Before  his  arrival  there  had  been  many  do- 
mestic discussions  as  to  his  treatment.  The  vener- 
able Abigail,  with  the  rabbit's  face,  had  wondered 
whether  she  ought  to  go  into  his  room  in  the  morn- 
ing to  place  his  bath.  Miss  Wootton  had  thought 
that  the  water  should  be  left  at  the  door — a  can 
of  cold  water  for  the  bath,  and  a  jug  of  hot  water 
for  shaving.  The  butler  said,  — 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  'm.  The  young  gentleman  is  my 
affair.  The  manservant  waits  on  the  gentlemen, 
and  the  maidservants  on  the  ladies.  Leave  it  to 
me,  'm.  It  '11  be  all  right." 

"And  his  clothes,"  said  Miss  Wootton;  "ought 
n't  they  to  be  brushed  and  folded?  " 

"  And  laid  out  on  a  chair,"  said  the  butler,  brid- 
ling with  pride  at  a  knowledge  of  his  duties :  "coat 
and  vest  first,  then  trousers,  if  you'll  excuse  me 
naming  them,  shirt  over  the  back,  socks  inside  out 
ready  for  wear,  and  collar  and  tie  on  the  top. 
Boots,  shoes,  gaiters,  and  cetera  under." 

Things  settled  themselves  when  Hartford  and 
Mrs.  Ruthven  arrived.  The  Miss  Woottons  found 
him  less  formidable  than  they  had  expected.  In  a 
week  his  manners  (his  best)  charmed  them.  He 


248         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

held  their  wool  for  them.  He  volunteered  to  go 
their  small  errands.  He  talked  to  them,  and  ap- 
peared interested  in  their  narrow  lives.  Moreover, 
he  had  brought  a  top  hat  in  which  to  go  to  church 
on  Sundays.  This  pleased  them,  for  Herbert  Pine 
since  his  emancipation  had  evoked  unfavourable 
comment  at  the  Hall  by  appearing  in  church  in 
what  Miss  Wootton  called  his  every-day  clothes. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  had  possibly  instructed  Hartford 
upon  such  points  as  promised  scope  for  pleasing  the 
old  ladies.  But  Hartford  was  naturally  domestic. 
He  liked  the  good  Miss  Woottons  for  themselves, 
though  much  connected  with  their  old-maiden  lives 
amused  him,  and  he  could  laugh  with  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven when  she  said  of  the  worsted-work  drawing- 
room  that  the  word  "  Chenille,"  though  she  could 
neither  explain  nor  justify  it,  somehow  expressed 
the  period  of  the  decorations.  The  Chenille  Age 
became  a  catch-word  between  them. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  rode,  and  she  drove,  and  she 
walked  at  this  time  to  fill  the  hours  and  employ  her 
thoughts.  She  was  not  in  a  happy  frame  of  mind, 
but  she  had  control  of  herself.  She  had  the  satis- 
faction of  knowing  that  by  devoting  herself  to 
Corbet's  aunts  she  had  overcome  any  prejudice 
that  might  have  existed  at  one  time  in  their  minds 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         249 

against  her,  and  that  they  believed  in  her,  and  even 
liked  her.  She  knew  Araby  well  enough  to  count 
upon  her  loyalty.  She  received  Araby 's  decision 
with  sincere  thankfulness. 

Hartford  was  an  orphan.  He  came  of  a  good 
family.  He  had  money.  And  his  only  near  rela- 
tions were  his  two  sisters  who  lived  with  a  paid 
chaperon  in  the  small  place  that  belonged  to  him 
in  Yorkshire.  There  was  no  one  to  interfere  with 
anything  that  he  (or  Mrs.  Ruthven)  might  choose 
to  arrange. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  protested  to  herself  that  she  was 
not  doing  so  badly  for  Araby.  The  marriage  was,  if 
not  brilliant,  eminently  desirable.  Araby  ought  to 
be  grateful  to  her. 

The  lady  did  protest  too  much,  indeed.  Still  it 
was  something  that  where  Araby  was  concerned 
she  should  have  tried  to  justify  herself  at  all,  or 
even  for  a  while,  and  she  spent  considerable  time 
in  trying  to  convince  herself  that  the  contemplated 
marriage  had  nothing  to  do  with  Gerald,  nor  with 
anything  that  she  might  have  said  of  him.  Why 
should  she  wish  Araby  married  ? 

Araby  for  her  part  felt  easier  in  her  mind  when 
she  had  given  her  answer.  She  looked  upon  it 
as  binding,  final,  irrevocable.  She  set  herself  to 


250         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

consider  the  man  with  whom  she  had  undertaken 
to  pass  her  life.  If  it  be  possible  to  like  a  person  as 
to  whose  next  speech  or  action  you  feel  no  partic- 
ular curiosity,  Araby  thought  she  could  like  Hart- 
ford. There  was  at  least,  she  thought,  nothing  in 
him  to  disapprove.  He  was  unaffected  and  a  gentle- 
man. She  gathered  generally  from  what  she  had 
seen  of  him  that  he  was  easily  led,  and  that  his 
opinions  took  their  colour  to  a  certain  extent  from 
those  of  his  neighbours  of  the  moment ;  also  that 
he  was  good-natured  and  frank.  She  did  not  know 
his  susceptibility,  nor  the  love-affairs  with  which 
he  troubled  an  otherwise  even  life.  If  she  had 
known  this  side  of  his  character  he  might  perhaps 
have  interested  her  more.  There  was  a  lifetime 
before  her  in  which  to  learn. 

Four  letters  were  written  to  Corbet  Ruthven 
that  night.  His  wife  wrote,  announcing  with  dis- 
creet and  measured  elation  the  conquest  which 
Araby  had  made.  She  described  Lewis  Hartford 
and  his  position.  Hartford  wrote,  asking  definitely 
for  the  hand  of  Araby,  and  stating  such  settlements 
as  he  was  prepared  to  make.  Araby  wrote  at  her 
mother's  suggestion,  endorsing  the  request  for  his 
consent.  She  thought  herself  that  this  was  the  first 
constrained  letter  which  she  had  ever  written  to 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         251 

her  father,  but  subsequent  events  showed  that  its 
constraint  had  not  struck  him.  Miss  Wootton  wrote 
to  say  how  warmly  both  she  and  her  sister  ap- 
proved their  niece's  choice. 

Then  Mrs.  Ruthven  surprised  every  one  by 
anticipating  her  husband's  consent,  and  making 
certain  arrangements  for  her  daughter's  trous- 
seau. 

Olympe  startled  Araby  by  the  way  in  which  she 
took  the  announcement  of  the  engagement. 

"  To  Monsieur  '  Arfor' ! "  she  said.  "  To  Monsieur 
'Arfor' !  Pas  possible." 

"Why  not,  Olympe?" 

"  So  sudden,  mademoiselle !  So  sudden !  So 
young,  you,  to  marry  !  And  to  Monsieur  'Arfor' ! 
I  lose  my  breath." 

Olympe  thought  a  good  deal  in  the  days  that 
followed.  She  of  all  concerned  was  perhaps  the 
one  person  who  guessed  something  approaching 
to  the  truth  of  the  case.  She  was  in  a  state  of  no 
little  perplexity.  She  loved  Araby,  and  in  her  way 
she  was  devoted  to  her  mistress  also.  She  saw  that 
their  interests  were  in  conflict.  Like  Mrs.  Sandon, 
she  was  alarmed  for  both.  She  wondered  whether 
she  ought  to  keep  to  herself  the  incident  of  the 
broken  frame,  and  that  which  she  thought  she  had 


252         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

discovered  from  Gerald's  manner.  She  asked  her- 
self whether  it  was  sentiment  merely  that  led  her 
to  suppose  that  Araby  had  given  her  heart  to  him, 
and  he  his  to  her.  If  indeed  it  was  not  her  own 
love  of  romance  —  and  the  conviction  was  strong 
upon  her  that  she  was  right  —  what  ought  she  to 
do  ?  In  the  absence  of  Gerald,  that  was  being  ar- 
ranged which  must  for  ever  part  him  from  Araby. 
In  her  uncertainty  she  said  nothing  to  Araby,  and 
she  gave  to  Gerald  the  hint  of  which  we  know. 

Araby  herself  puzzled  Olympe.  She  appeared  to 
settle  down  almost  complacently  into  her  engage- 
ment to  Hartford.  She  scarcely  even  looked  un- 
happy. 

Hartford,  finding  at  length  an  object  upon  which 
to  expend  his  affections  legitimately,  transferred  a 
certain  amount  of  his  devotion  from  Mrs.  Ruthven 
to  Araby.  He  left  Eccram  for  a  few  days  and  paid 
a  visit  to  his  sisters  at  home.  Then  he  spent  a 
couple  of  days  in  London,  saw  his  solicitors,  and 
bought  Araby  some  presents  and  a  ring.  Thus 
laden  he  returned  to  Eccram. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  asked  him  whom  he  had  seen  in 
London. 

"  Not  a  soul." 

"Not  at  your  club?" 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         253 

"Some  men  I  know,  of  course.  No  one  par- 
ticular." 

"Not  Mr.  Ventnor?" 

"  I  asked  about  him.  He  is  still  away." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  looked  relieved.  She  had  certain 
plans. 

Hartford  asked  for  Araby,  who  had  not  known 
the  exact  time  he  had  settled  for  his  return. 

"You  will  find  her  at  the  church,"  said  Miss 
Wootton.  "  She  has  gone  there  to  practise  the 
organ." 

Hartford  found  her  in  the  loft.  She  was  playing 
Chopin's  "  Funeral  March  "  with  feeling  and  some 
inaccuracy.  He  stole  up  the  creaking  stairs  on  tip- 
toe. She  did  not  divine  his  presence  till  he  had 
crept  up  behind  her  and  put  his  hands  over  her 
eyes.  She  gave  a  little  cry,  and  the  pedals  struck 
a  false  chord.  The  discord  swelled  through  the 
empty  church.  He  sat  down  beside  her  on  the 
seat. 

"  You  frightened  me,"  she  said,  "  you  startled 
me.  Why  didn't  you  speak?  you  might  have 
warned  me ! " 

He  tried  to  take  her  hand.  Perhaps  the  music 
had  unnerved  her.  She  had  been  playing  perhaps 
to  the  burial  of  her  thoughts  of  Gerald.  For  what- 


254^        TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"V. 

ever  reason,  she  drew  away  her  hands  and  burst 
into  tears. 

The  old  man  who  blew  the  organ  peered  round 
the  corner.  What  he  saw  gave  him  the  impres- 
sion that  the  lady  had  received  her  lover  coldly. 
Araby  remembered  his  presence  after  a  moment 
or  two  and  told  him  that  he  need  not  wait.  He 
shuffled  away.  Miss  Pine  met  him  as  he  crossed 
the  churchyard.  It  was  perhaps  from  what  he 
told  her  garrulously  that  she  formed  her  conclu- 
sion^ that  Araby  had  been  "  bullied  '  into  her 
engagement. 

Araby  recovered  herself  after  a  minute  or  two 
and  was  deeply  contrite. 

"  I  was  startled,  Lewis.  You  must  forgive  me. 
I  thought  I  was  alone." 

He  accepted  her  explanation  without  question. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  What  have  you  done  since  you  went  away  ?  " 

"  Have  you  missed  me  a  little  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Araby. 

"  I  have  a  letter  for  you  from  my  sisters,"  said 
Hartford.  "  They  're  very  glad.  Millicent  made  me 
describe  you  a  dozen  times  —  " 

"A  red-haired  girl,"  said  Araby,  smiling.  "I 
don't  sound  well  in  description." 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         255 

"Yes,  a  red-haired  girl,"  said  Hartford.  "Yet 
I  think  Millicent  knows  that  you  are  beautiful. 
I  said  you  were  like  that  picture  in  the  National 
Gallery  —  by  what  Vhis-name." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,"  said  Araby,  with  a  sudden 
gesture.  It  had  been  said  once  before  by  someone 
else. 

"And  this  is  your  sisters'  letter  to  me?" 

He  put  an  envelope  into  her  hand. 

"  Shall  I  read  it  now  ?  " 

He  nodded,  and  watched  her  as  she  read.  The 
sun  was  setting,  and  the  light  was  further  stained 
as  it  passed  through  the  coloured  windows.  The 
brown  oak  of  the  seats  in  the  nave  caught  tinges 
of  crimson  and  green  and  blue.  A  brass  plate  in 
the  wall  shone.  The  empty  pulpit  looked  gloomy 
in  a  darker  spot.  Here  and  there  the  whiteness  of 
a  marble  tablet  made  itself  conspicuous.  A  branch 
tapped  a  window  with  insistence.  Hartford  looked 
from  Araby  to  a  figure,  in  the  glass,  of  the  mother 
of  Christ  and  of  sorrows.  Here,  too,  he  saw  a 
likeness.  It  vanished  when  Araby  looked  up  and 
smiled. 

"  What  a  kind  letter !  How  good  of  your  sisters  ! 
How  nice  of  them  to  write  to  me!  I  shall  like 
them.  They  write  to  me  as  if  they  knew  me.  I 


256         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

wish  I  could  deserve  all  they  say.  Oh,  I  wish  I 
could.  But  I  '11  try.  I  '11  spend  my  life  trying." 

Hartford,  susceptible  to  every  influence  of  the 
moment,  drew  Araby  closer  to  him.  At  this  mo- 
ment, at  least,  it  was  Araby  who  was  dear  to  him. 

She  disengaged  herself  from  the  arm  he  had 
thrown  round  her  and  faced  him. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

Like  Herod  he  wished  to  grant  any  request  she 
might  make,  before  even  knowing  its  import. 

"  But  it  is  n't  anything  I  want  you  to  give  me  or 
to  allow  me.  I  want  to  know,  Lewis,  solemnly, 
whether  you  want  to  marry  me?  Oh,  don't  pro- 
test. Wait  one  moment  and  let  me  speak.  I  want 
to  know  whether  you  wish  it  of  your  own  free  will, 
for  it  came  suddenly.  We  'd  seen  so  little  of  each 
other,  though  we  had  met  often  enough  before 
you  came  here ;  and,  I  told  you  myself  that  I  — 
how  shall  I  put  it  ?  —  had  n't  had  time  to  know 
whether  I  could  learn  to — to  love  you." 

For  answer  he  slipped  the  ring  he  had  bought 
on  to  her  finger. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  surprised  Araby  that  her  mother  should  stay 
on  at  Eccram.  To  one  of  Mrs.  Ruthven's  tempera- 
ment the  monotony  of  the  life  must  have  been 
somewhat  trying.  Mrs.  Ruthven,  however,  when 
she  had  set  herself  a  task  had  always  sufficient 
strength  of  mind  to  carry  it  through.  She  could 
put  up  with  present  boredom  for  the  sake  of  what 
was  to  come.  Hartford  had  suggested  his  own 
departure  once  or  twice,  but  for  some  reason  or 
other  she  would  not  hear  of  it. 

"  Why  should  you  go,  my  dear  boy  ?  You  have 
nothing  to  do.  The  Miss  Woottons  are  delighted 
to  have  you." 

"But  they  can't  want  me  indefinitely,"  said 
Hartford. 

"We're  all  very  happy,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven. 
"  Why  break  up  a  happy  family  ?  Araby  likes  to 
have  you  here.  I  like  to  have  you  here." 

He  submitted. 

Olympe  had  a  theory  that  Mrs.  Ruthven  did  not 
wish  to  let  him  out  of  her  sight.  She  had  a  further 
theory  that  Mrs.  Ruthven  had  her  motives  for  stay- 


258         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

ing  on  herself  at  Eccram,  and  that  these  motives 
were  in  some  way  connected  with  Mr.  Ventnor. 
This  made  the  Frenchwoman  vaguely  uneasy,  as 
indeed,  at  this  time,  did  any  thought  of  Gerald. 
She  saw  that  by  not  returning  to  London  her  mis- 
tress was  putting  herself  to  considerable  expense. 
The  milliner,  who  was  making  the  trousseau,  came 
backwards  and  forwards  between  Bond  Street  and 
Eccram.  Travelling  and  time  :  significant  items,  as 
Madame  would  find !  You  would  have  said  the  bill 
would  be  heavy  enough  without  those.  Madame 
without  doubt  had  her  reasons  !  And  this  haste  — 
this  curious  appearance  of  haste.  Olympe  was  ill- 
at-ease,  but  what  could  she  do  ? 

So  the  days  passed. 

"  I  am  very  happy  about  Araby's  marriage," 
Mrs.  Ruthven  said  a  dozen  times  to  the  elderly 
mistresses  of  Eccram.  "People  might  think,  of 
course,  that  she  was  rather  young,  but,  for  myself, 
I  think  there 's  something  beautiful  in  a  girl  marry- 
ing before  she 's  disillusioned." 

"  My  only  fear,"  said  Miss  Wootton,  "  is  that 
Araby  is  perhaps  a  little  inexperienced." 

"Oh,  but  experience  comes  so  quickly,"  said 
Mrs.  Ruthven.  "  I  did  n't  know  mutton  from  beef 
when  I  married." 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         259 

"  I  am  going  to  see  if  I  can  get  *  The  Complete 
Housekeeper  and  Young  Wife's  Companion '  for 
her,"  said  Miss  Laura.  "  Araby  will  find  it  a  great 
help." 

"  I  long  to  hear  from  Corbet,"  said  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven  ;  "  I  asked  him  to  cable." 

Araby  walked  and  talked  with  Hartford,  but 
when  she  was  silent  she  thought  of  him  no  things 
that  were  unutterable.  On  the  whole  she  was  not 
discontented.  There  were  moments,  however,  when 
the  recollection  of  Gerald  filled  her  with  a  regret 
such  as  used  to  be  described  as  poignant.  She  was 
destined,  she  supposed,  for  a  life  of  indifferent  hap- 
piness—  but  oh,  the  happiness  which  had  been 
shown  to  her  for  a  moment  and  denied  her !  She 
passed  a  night  in  tears.  Olympe  nearly  spoke  but 
was  silent.  What  had  she,  in  point  of  fact,  to  tell  ? 
And  Araby,  ignorant  that  happiness  had  been  nearer 
to  her  than  she  thought,  suffered  the  days  to  pass. 

Nothing  but  the  refusal  of  her  father's  consent 
could  now  break  off  the  engagement  into  which 
she  had  voluntarily  entered,  and  she  did  not  think  . 
it  likely  that  he  would  refuse  it.  She  scarcely  even 
wished  it.  In  a  manner  she  had  grown  fond  of 
Hartford.  It  was  as  well,  she  told  herself,  that  she 
should  marry  him  as  anyone  else.  He  would  be 


26o         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

kind  to  her  and  considerate.  He  had  an  even 
temper,  and  his  affection  for  animals  argued  much 
that  was  good. 

After  the  explanation,  such  as  it  was,  in  the 
organ-loft  in  Eccram  church,  of  the  conditions  upon 
which  the  engagement  must  clearly  be  understood 
to  rest,  Araby  made  no  further  allusion  to  the  lim- 
itations of  the  feelings  which  she  entertained  for 
him.  He  appeared  to  be  satisfied  with  as  much  of 
her  heart  as  she  was  prepared  to  give  him. 

She  dreaded  just  then  the  mention  of  Gerald's 
name  and  yet  she  wished  for  it.  It  came  one  day 
as  she  was  riding  with  Hartford.  They  cantered 
down  one  of  the  straight  sandy  roads  leading 
through  Long  Eccram  woods.  The  smell  of  pines 
hung  in  the  air.  There  were  narrow  avenues  be- 
tween the  trees,  regular  as  the  lines  of  a  Kentish 
hop-garden.  Araby 's  colour  mounted  with  the  ex- 
ercise. A  soft  wind  whistled  in  her  ears,  and  a  lock 
of  hair  was  loosened.  She  slackened  her  pace  to  a 
trot  and  then  to  a  walk.  Hartford  watched  her  as, 
with  a  deft  movement  of  her  hands  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  she  twisted  in  the  escaped  tress. 

"We'll  go  up  Bracken  Hill,"  she  said,  " I  want 
to  show  you  the  view.  On  a  clear  day  you  can  see 
three  counties." 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         261 

They  emerged  from  the  road  presently  on  to  a 
rough  incline  up  which  they  walked  their  horses. 
The  road  was  loose  and  uneven.  It  wound  with 
dips  and  risings  upwards  round  the  hill.  When  the 
summit  was  reached,  Hartford  gave  an  exclamation 
of  pleasure.  Araby  seemed  pleased  at  his  pleasure. 

"  How  wonderfully  one  sees/'  he  said,  standing 
up  for  a  moment  in  his  stirrups.  He  picked  out 
rather  obvious  landmarks  that  he  recognized.  That 
was  Eccram  church,  was  n't  it,  down  there  to  the 
right? 

He  looked  in  the  direction  whence  he  had  just 
come  with  Araby.  "  How  splendid  the  pine  woods 
look  from  up  here.  I  believe  I  can  smell  them  still." 

"  I  can,"  said  Araby,  warming.  "I  should  like  to 
live  in  a  pine  forest.  I  should  like  to  be  a  charcoal- 
burner  in  a  German  story  —  would  that  entail 
living  in  a  pine  forest  ?  Would  it  be  pine  ?  I  don't 
know,  but  I  like  to  think  so.  There  would  be  cones 
all  strewn  about.  You  would  kick  them  as  you 
walked,  and  you  would  breathe  in  the  scent  of 
resin.  I  could  believe  in  elves  and  pixies  in  a  forest. 
Do  you  know  the  elastic  slipperiness  of  the  ground 
under  firs?" 

Hartford  with  amusement,  and  watching  Araby's 
sparkling  eyes,  said  that  he  thought  he  knew. 


262         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"Well,  they  would  dance,  and  slide,  and  jump 
on  it,  and  then  they  would  sit  down  to  rest  on  a 
big  crimson  fungus.  In  the  autumn  in  those  woods, 
down  there,  there  are  wonderful  red  and  orange 
mushrooms." 

"I  'm  going  to  marry  a  child,"  said  Hartford  to 
himself  —  only  half  understanding.  He  had  not 
before  seen  Araby  so  light-hearted.  She  left  her 
fairies  presently,  and  went  back  with  a  little  glad 
laugh  to  her  charcoal-burning. 

"  And  there  would  be  nice  charred  rings  when 
the  fires  were  out,"  she  said,  looking  at  Hartford 
abstractedly.  "And  you  could  roast  potatoes  in 
the  hot  ashes ;  you  would  rake  the  flaky  wood 
cinders  over  them.  Don't  you  like  roast  potatoes  ? 
Don't  you  always  want  to  stop  and  buy  them  in 
London  when  you  pass  a  baked-potato  can  ?  " 

"I  can't  say  that  I  do,"  said  Hartford,  smiling; 
"  I  remember  though  once  another  chap  and  my- 
self buying  a  man's  whole  stock.  It  was  last  year, 
in  the  winter  —  one  of  those  biting  cold  nights  — 
and  we  were  taking  a  short  cut  back  from  some 
theatre,  I  forget  which,  and  we  saw  three  kids 
shivering  on  a  door-step.  One  of  'em  begged  from 
us,  and  we  went  on,  and  presently  we  passed  a 
potato-can,  and  I  'm  blessed  if  the  man  I  was  with 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         263 

did  n't  go  back  and  fetch  those  three  dirty  little 
kids,  and  we  filled  them  with  baked  potatoes.  A 
lot  more  little  hungry  devils  turned  up  too,  and  we 
pretty  well  cleared  the  man  out." 

"  How  nice  of  your  friend  to  go  back !  I  like  him 
for  it,"  said  Araby. 

She  turned  her  horse's  head  homewards  as  she 
spoke.  Hartford  followed  suit. 

"One  of  the  best,"  said  Hartford,  who  used  that 
sort  of  phrase.  "  But  you  know  him.  I  was  forget- 
ting. It  was  Ventnor  —  Gerald  Ventnor." 

Araby  said  nothing.  Perhaps  her  hand  tightened 
on  the  bridle,  for  her  horse  curveted  and  tossed  his 
head  restlessly.  Araby  laughed  no  more,  nor  did 
she  talk  again  of  fairies  or  charcoal-burners,  though 
the  woods,  as  she  rode  back  through  them  with 
Hartford  in  a  light  that  the  afternoon  mellowed  at 
every  moment,  looked  more  beautiful  than  ever. 
The  long  straight  avenues  gained  in  mystery.  The 
breeze  stirred  the  tree-tops  and  made  the  noise  of 
a  distant  sea.  Below  there  was  a  marked  stillness. 
There  were  no  birds.  Shadows  were  more  pro- 
nounced. A  pool  which  Araby  knew  to  be  shallow 
looked  deep  and  secret. 

"What  an  evening!"  said  Hartford,  trying, 
though  not  very  successfully,  to  conjure  back 


264          TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

Araby's  happier  mood.  "  Look  at  the  light  on  that 
moss.  It  makes  it  look  like  crumpled  gold-leaf." 

Araby  assented.  He  brought  his  horse  nearer  to 
hers. 

"  What  has  come  over  you,  Araby  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  without  speaking. 

"There's  something  sad  in  your  pine  woods 
after  all,"  he  said  then,  more  sincerely.  It  was  as  if 
her  depression  was  communicated  to  him.  "  We  are 
the  only  souls  in  them.  Listen." 

They  drew  rein. 

"  What  silence  1  There  is  nothing  stirring  but 
the  breeze."  She  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  He 
leant  towards  her  from  his  saddle.  "Kiss  me, 
Araby." 

But  Araby's  horse  started, 

"Well,  no  matter,"  he  said,  and  they  rode 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

HAVING  thought  of  Gerald,  Hartford  spoke  of  him 
once  or  twice  that  evening.  A  gloom  fell  over 
Araby  as  before.  One  would  have  said  that  the 
subject  had  little  interest  for  Mrs.  Ruthven.  She 
changed  it.  But  it  made  her  restless.  The  dullness 
of  the  evenings  at  Eccram  was  becoming  almost 
more  than  she  could  bear. 

Every  night  the  two  Miss  Woottons  played  a 
game  of  chess.  It  was  their  invariable  wont  when 
they  were  alone,  and  though  out  of  civility  to  their 
visitors  they  had  abstained  from  it  for  a  few  days, 
they  had  resumed  their  custom  with  alacrity  when 
Mrs.  Ruthven  had  assured  them  that  it  would  not 
in  any  way  seem  unmannerly  to  their  guests. 

"  We  shall  be  interested  in  watching  the  progress 
of  the  game,"  she  said.  "  I  am  sure,  Laura,  that  you 
and  Clara  play  scientifically,  and  that  Mr.  Hartford 
and  I  shall  gain  much  by  studying  your  play." 

The  Miss  Woottons  protested. 

"I  am  afraid  we  play  far  from  scientifically," 
said  the  elder,  "  though  we  play  very  carefully.  We 
are  evenly  matched  on  the  whole.  You  see,  play- 


266         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

ing  so  constantly  —  we  didn't  miss  one  night  last 
winter  —  " 

"  Excepting  Sundays,"  Miss  Laura  put  in  hur- 
riedly. 

"  Excepting  Sundays,  of  course,"  said  Miss 
Wootton.  "  Playing  so  constantly,  I  was  going  to 
say,  we  get  to  know  each  other's  methods." 

"  Pray  go  on  then,  Clara,  with  your  games  just 
as  you  would  if  we  were  not  here.  Mr.  Hartford 
would  not  for  worlds  that  you  should  alter  your 
usual  way  of  spending  your  evenings  for  him." 

"  No  —  please  —  "  said  Hartford. 

And  so  the  chess-board  made  its  reappearance, 
and  every  evening  the  Miss  Woottons  sat  gauntly 
opposite  each  other  on  high  chairs,  with  their 
battle-ground  between  them. 

"  It 's  better  than  having  to  talk  to  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Ruthven  to  herself,  "  and  they  get  so  absorbed 
in  their  game  that  they  don't  hear  a  word  one  says. 
We  score  two." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  and  Hartford  played  something 
which  they  called  bezique  on  one  evening  and 
beggar-my-neighbour  on  another.  They  used  coun- 
ters, and  settled  up  their  debts  afterwards  in  the 
smoking-room.  Araby  read,  or  worked,  or  sang. 
It  was  all  very  innocent  and  rather  dull.  Mrs. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         267 

Ruthven  contrived,  however,  that  Hartford  should 
not  find  out  that  it  was  dull. 

On  the  evening  which  succeeded  the  ride  through 
Long  Eccram  woods  Araby  was  not  in  a  mood  for 
singing,  and  her  mother  could  not  settle  down 
to  her  gamble.  Mrs.  Ruthven's  plain  black  dress 
made  a  rustling  as  it  trailed  across  the  carpet.  The 
sound  was  the  outward  expression  of  the  restless- 
ness that  possessed  her.  The  Miss  Woottons  felt 
some  disturbing  influence,  and  looked  up  two  or 
three  times  from  the  chess-board,  at  which  it  was 
their  habit  to  gaze  in  contemplative  silence.  Mrs. 
Ruthven  caught  Miss  Laura's  eye  once.  Mrs. 
Ruthven's  expression  said  as  clearly  and  as  impa- 
tiently as  possible,  "  Well?" 

Miss  Laura  returned  hurriedly,  and  almost  as  if 
she  had  been  snubbed,  to  her  study  of  the  chess- 
men. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  went  to  a  window  and  drew  aside 
the  curtain.  She  looked  out.  The  grounds  were  all 
black  at  first.  By  degrees,  as  her  eyes  became  ac- 
customed to  the  darkness,  things  took  shape.  An 
evergreen  oak  looked  full  and  prosperous  in  con- 
trast to  the  leafless  elms.  The  shrubs  outlined  the 
left  border  of  the  lawn.  A  path  showed  itself  pres- 
ently. Things  as  she  gazed  came  out  in  the  dark- 


268  TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

ness  as  stars  come  out  to  an  intent  student  of  the 
skies,  where  all  before  has  seemed  unlightened 
space.  There  were  no  noises  in  the  night.  The 
peacefulness  served  only  as  an  irritant  to  Mrs. 
Ruthven.  She  wished  for  India  or  London. 

"  I  can't  stand  it  much  longer,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  There  are  limits  to  what  I  can  endure,  and 
I  have  nearly  reached  them.  I  could  break  the 
window  at  this  moment,  or  startle  those  old  women 
by  upsetting  their  chess-board,  or  do  anything  that 
would  disturb  this  appalling  monotony  I  I  want 
excitement.  This  isn't  life.  I  should  grow  old 
here  in  a  year.  It  is  stagnation  that  ages  one.  Oh, 
those  old  women  !  They  get  on  my  nerves  with 
their  mittens,  and  their  wool-work,  and  their  chess, 
and  their  doctrines.  Araby  irritates  me  because  I 
am  injuring  her.  Lewis  irritates  me  because  he  can 
go  to  her  from  me.  What  greater  curse  can  be  laid 
on  a  woman  than  to  be  denied  the  domestic  mind  ?  " 

Mrs.  Ruthven  felt  that  she  had  struck  the  key- 
note of  her  life. 

"The  domestic  mind,"  she  said;  "yes,  that  is 
what  I  have  n't  got." 

As  a  pendant  to  the  thought  came  another :  if 
she  had  been  born  in  a  lower  rank  of  life  —  with- 
out money,  comforts,  the  small  luxuries  .  .  .  ? 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         269 

The  conclusion  of  the  game  of  chess  and  the 
simultaneous  rising  of  the  Miss  Woottons  surprised 
her  in  a  fit  of  shuddering. 

"  My  revenge  to-morrow  night,"  Miss  Laura  was 
saying. 

"  You  did  n't  play  as  well  as  usual,"  said  Miss 
Wootton.  "  You  did  n't  seem  able  to  fix  your  at- 
tention. You  ought  not  to  have  let  me  take  your 
queen  so  easily." 

Miss  Laura  looked  in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven.  Hartford  helped  Miss  Wootton  to  put  away 
the  men,  and  then,  excusing  himself  on  the  ground 
that  he  had  letters  to  write,  he  said  good-night  all 
round  and  withdrew  to  the  smoking-room. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  followed  him  some  ten  minutes 
later.  She  found  him  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and 
a  pen  in  his  hand.  He  was  an  indifferent  scribe, 
and  he  hailed  her  entrance  with  relief  as  an  inter- 
ruption. 

"Tell  me  something  to  put  in  my  letter,"  he 
said,  like  a  schoolboy. 

He  had  directed  an  envelope  during  one  of  the 
pauses  inevitable  to  the  attempt  to  express,  himself 
upon  paper. 

"  I  never  could  write  a  letter,"  he  said. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  saw  the  address  upon  the  envelope. 


270         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"  Mr.  Ventnor's  not  in  London,"  she  said  ;  "  Len- 
nox Gardens  won't  find  him." 

"  But  his  letters  will  be  forwarded." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  stirred  the  fire  absently. 

"Are  you  telling  him  of  your  engagement?" 

"That's  what  I  'm  writing  for.  I  ought  to  have 
let  him  know  sooner." 

"Would  you  mind  waiting  till  we  hear  from 
Araby's  father  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Ruthven  after  an  inter- 
val, during  which  she  looked  at  the  flames  that 
leapt  in  the  grate,  and  he  nibbled  the  top  of  his 
quill.  "  If  my  husband  cables  as  I  asked  him  to, 
we  ought  to  get  his  telegram  this  week.  I  would 
rather  not  have  the  engagement  made  public  till 
it  has  his  sanction." 

"You  don't  expect  him  to  refuse  it? " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  think  he'll  be  glad  to  have 
you  for  a  son-in-law,  but  I  would  rather  you  would 
wait  before  announcing  the  engagement." 

"All  right,"  said  Hartford.  "Though  telling 
Gerald  is  n't  exactly  announcing  it." 

"  No,  it  is  n't ;  still,  wait  a  day  or  two." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Hartford. 

He  put  away  his  writing  materials  with  some 
alacrity,  and  stretched  himself  luxuriously  in  an 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         271 

easy-chair  by  the   fire.   Mrs.   Ruthven  left  him 
presently. 

She  lay  awake  half  the  night,  telling  herself  that 
her  patience  was  nearly  exhausted.  The  dullness 
of  Eccram  had  got  a  grip  of  her.  It  was  appall- 
ing. She  was  wasting  the  precious  hours  of  her 
life.  Each  day  that  she  spent  here  was  a  day  lost, 
and  days  make  years.  She  fretted  and  chafed. 

She  tried  to  solace  herself  with  the  reflection 
that  it  was  only  for  a  few  more  weeks.  She  could 
not  afford  to  lose  them.  She  was  in  the  case,  she 
told  herself,  of  one  who  knows  the  number  of  his 
days,  and  who  sees  them  slipping  from  him  with- 
out profit. 

She  lived  for  the  minute  and  she  was  unsatisfied. 
She  had  made  her  choice  —  chosen  the  world  and 
the  things  of  it,  and  she  was  being  cheated.  She 
was  being  cheated.  To-day  was  her  day  —  what 
did  she  know  or  care  about  to-morrow  ?  It  was  n't 
fair.  She  had  staked  everything,  if  there  be  any- 
thing to  stake,  upon  the  present,  and  the  present 
was  giving  her  no  return. 

The  wind  rustled  in  the  ivy  outside  her  window. 
It  cried  in  depressing  cadences  in  the  old  chim- 
neys of  Eccram.  It  whispered  through  the  leaves 
of  the  evergreen  oak. 


272         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

"Oh,  oh,  oh,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven  to  herself,  and 
changed  her  position. 

A  clock  ticked  with  loud  monotony.  The  steady  , 
sound  caught  her  ear  and  arrested  her  attention. 
As  she  listened  it  seemed  to  her  to  be  increasing 
in  volume.  This  was  the  throbbing  of  the  heart 
of  time.  Tick,  tick,  tick,  tick  .  .  .  louder  .  .  . 
louder  .  .  .  tick,  tick  ...  It  was  deafening !  She 
drew  the  bed-clothes  over  her  ears.  She  closed  her 
eyes  and  tried  to  sleep.  She  opened  them  and 
looked  on  at  the  blackness  of  the  room.  The  dark- 
ness appeared  to  move  in  revolving  circles.  It  was 
a  thing  that  you  could  watch.  It  seemed  tangible. 
There  were  white  spots  in  it.  When  she  tried  to 
count  them  they  receded  or  they  advanced,  and 
one  was  absorbed  into  another. 

So  the  night  wore  itself  away.  Since  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven woke  in  the  morning,  it  is  to  be  supposed  that 
at  some  hour  she  must  have  fallen  asleep,  but  she 
had  no  recollection  of  the  ending  of  her  vigil.  It 
may  have  ended  at  the  moment  of  arriving  at  the 
decision  that,  come  what  would,  she  would  now 
hurry  on  Araby's  marriage.  It  would  be  necessary 
of  course  to  wait  for  Corbet's  consent,  but,  as  she 
had  said  to  Hartford,  she  did  not  expect  him  to 
withhold  it.  It  might  come  now  in  the  form  of  a 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         273 

telegram  at  any  moment.  All  that  remained  then 
for  her  to  do  was  to  find  or  to  invent  some  plausible 
excuse  for  wishing  the  wedding  to  take  place  with- 
out delay  upon  the  receipt  of  her  husband's  mes- 
sage. To  one  of  her  infinite  resource  it  would  not 
be  difficult  to  light  upon  cogent  reasons  for  any 
consummation  which  she  might  desire.  She  had 
never  yet  failed  to  attain  an  end  for  lack  of  con- 
vincing argument  in  its  favour.  Possibly  the  fact 
that  in  her  hand  the  truth  was  always  pliant  served 
to  help  her  through  the  world. 

An  excuse,  however,  came  to  her  of  its  own  ac- 
cord, and  without  the  necessity  of  warping  pliant 
truth  to  meet  her  desire.  It  came  through  Mrs. 
Sandon  in  one  of  her  rambling  and  unpunctuated 
letters. 

"  Never  was  so  surprised  about  anything,"  it 
ran,  "  and  of  course  I  shall  say  nothing  about  it 
till  you  give  me  leave  What  an  odd  woman  you 
are,  Johnnie,  I  do  hope  you  are  consulting  Araby' s 
happiness  in  the  matter  Lewis  Hartford  is  a  very 
good  boy  and  from  a  worldly  point  of  view  I  think 
Araby  is  doing  very  well  for  herself  but  do  tell  me 
whether  it  calls  itself  a  love-match.  Lewis  was  in- 
fatuated with  you  from  the  first  but  it  never  struck 
me  that  he  and  Araby  ever  took  much  notice  of 


274         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

each  other.  I  would  give  something  to  know  the 
truth  you  naughty  woman  but  I  suppose  I  shall 
never  know  anything  more  than  you  choose  to  tell 
me  I  can't  help  laughing  over  the  whole  thing.  It 
is  too  bad  of  you  to  charge  me  not  to  tell  when  I 
am  dying  to  discuss  you  and  your  doings  with 
someone  I  miss  poor  dear  Lady  Murgatroyd  dread- 
fully. She  used  to  be  my  safety-valve  and  when- 
ever I  was  bubbling  over  with  the  excitement  of 
some  nice  little  bit  of  news  or  gossip  I  just  asked 
her  in  to  tea  Poor  dear  thing !  Johnnie  you  bad 
clever  woman  do  tell  me  all  about  it.  Was  it  in 
your  wicked  heart  when  you  whisked  the  young 
man  off  to  Eccram  with  you  Is  he  in  love  with 
Araby  Is  Araby  in  love  with  him  How  do  the  Miss 
Woottons  regard  the  match  What  do  they  think  of 
you  —  yes  —  what  do  they  think  of  you  —  but  then 
you  would  hoodwink  the  Old  Person  himself  I 
dare  say  you  talk  copy-book  and  that  Corbet's 
aunts  think  you  a  model  young  matron.  .  .  ." 

All  this  made  Mrs.  Ruthven  chuckle  as  she  read 
it,  and  put  her  into  high  good-humour.  She  felt 
like  a  mischievous  child  who  has  heard  its  naughti- 
ness called  clever. 

Then  in  Mr.  Sandon's  letter  came  that  which 
would  furnish  an  excuse  if  need  be  for  the  hasten- 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         275 

ing  of  Araby's  marriage.  Mrs.  Sandon  was  going 
abroad. 

"  I  cannot  face  March  in  London  and  to  justify 
my  extravagance  to  myself  I  have  got  my  doctor 
to  prescribe  the  South  of  France  I  shall  go  to 
Cannes  or  Mentone.  If  it  were  not  that  I  suppose 
you  are  tied  just  now  I  should  ask  you  to  come 
with  me  —  I  suppose  it  would  not  be  any  use  but 
I  dare  say  we  should  manage  between  us  to  have 
a  pleasant  time." 

Mrs.  Ruthven  took  Hartford  out  for  a  walk  that 
morning. 

"  We  settled  long  ago,"  she  said,  as  they  strode 
sturdily  along  the  London  road,  "  we  settled  long 
ago  that  Araby  should  not  have  a  big  wedding, 
with  bridesmaids  and  all  the  abominations." 

"That  is  so,"  said  Hartford.  "It's  a  stipula- 
tion," he  added,  "  that  I  always  make." 

"Then,  supposing  I  wished  the  marriage  to 
take  place  soon  —  " 

"  How  soon  ?  " 

"  Very  soon.  I  don't  know.  I  only  said  suppos- 
ing." 

He  waited  for  her  to  proceed. 

"The  fact  is,  I  want  to  go  abroad,"  she  said. 
"Mrs.  Sandon —  I  heard  from  her  this  morning  — 


276         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

is  going  to  Cannes,  and  she  would  like  me  to  go 
with  her.  I  don't  want  to  give  her  an  answer  this 
minute,  you  understand;  but  I  wouldn't  go  of 
course  till  after  Araby's  marriage.  So  supposing 
that  I  wished  that  to  take  place  soon  —  almost  at 
once?" 

"  There  is  the  answer  from  India,"  said  Hart- 
ford. 

"That  of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Ruthven.  "We 
wait  for  that.  I  mean  after." 

"  What  does  Araby  say?" 

Mrs.  Ruthven  swung  her  stick  and  cut  off  the 
head  of  a  weed  that  was  growing  at  the  road-side. 

"  I  have  n't  spoken  to  Araby  yet  on  the  subject 
All  this  is  conditional,  don't  you  see  —  conditional 
on  possibilities,  and  on  my  wishing  to  go  with  Mrs. 
Sandon.  I  shall  naturally  be  rather  lonely  when  I 
lose  Araby,  though,  as  you  know,  there  is  n't  any 
very  close  sympathy  between  us.  We  are  too  differ- 
ently constituted  for  that.  You  can  see  it  for  your- 
self, so  I  don't  mind  admitting  it  to  you.  Still,  when 
Araby  goes  I  shall  miss  her — whenever  it  may 
be.  Supposing,  then,  I  say,  I  should  wish  to  go 
abroad  with  Mrs.  Sandon  —  it 's  a  chance  of  com- 
panionship for  me  —  would  you  object  to  marry- 
ing Araby  soon  enough  to  make  it  possible?" 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         277 

"No,"  said  Hartford;  "I  shouldn't  mind,  if 
Araby  did  n't." 

"You  can  talk  it  over  with  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Ruthven.  "  There  does  n't  really  seem  to  be  any- 
thing to  wait  for.  If  we'd  settled  to  have  an 
elaborate  wedding  it  would  be  different,  but  hap- 
pily you  hate  all  that  as  much  as  I  do." 

Thus  Mrs.  Ruthven  dealt  with  Hartford.  At 
luncheon  she  mentioned  Mrs.  Sandon's  letter  casu- 
ally to  the  Miss  Woottons  and  Araby.  In  the 
course  of  the  afternoon  she  recurred  to  the  matter, 
and  said  that  she  wished  that  she  could  accept  the 
invitation. 

"  Of  course  I  could  n't  go  till  after  Araby' s 
wedding." 

"And  I  suppose  it  would  delay  that  too  long  to 
put  it  off  till  your  return  ? "  said  Miss  Wootton. 
"  Otherwise  Laura  and  I  would  be  only  too  glad 
to  have  Araby  with  us  till  then." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  that  would  be  impossible,"  said  Mrs. 
Ruthven. 

"  When  does  Mrs.  Sandon  start  ? "  asked  Miss 
Wootton. 

"She  doesn't  say  definitely,"  answered  Mrs. 
Ruthven.  "  Soon,  I  think.  I  suppose  one  day  next 
week.  Perhaps  if  I  get  Corbet's  cable  within  the 


278         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

next  twenty-four  hours  it  might  be  possible  to  — 
No,  that  would  be  too  ridiculous."  Mrs.  Ruthven 
laughed.  "  I  could  scarcely  get  Araby  married  in 
a  week,  could  I?" 

By  the  evening,  however,  everyone  in  the  house 
was  accustomed  to  the  idea  that  the  wedding 
might  take  place  very  much  sooner  than  had  been 
expected. 

Olympe  knit  her  brows. 

"  I  can  do  nothing,"  she  said  to  herself,  looking 
at  the  photograph  of  Araby  in  the  frame  which 
Gerald  had  had  mended.  "I  see  her  go  to  the 
altar  —  yes,  the  altar  of  sacrifice!  —  and  I  can  do 
nothing.  Miserable  that  I  am !  Oui,  madame,  je 
descends." 

Her  mistress  was  calling  her,  and  she  left  the 
frame  upon  a  table  instead  of  putting  it  back 
into  the  trunk. 

Araby  went  up  to  dress  for  dinner.  She  had 
spent  the  afternoon  with  Hartford  in  the  library. 
She  had  found  him  very  amiable,  and  she  had 
wished  for  something  more  assertive  in  the  man- 
liness of  the  man  with  whom  she  was  to  pass  her 
life. 

"We  shan't  even  quarrel,"  she  said  to  herself 
with  a  smile. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         279 

She  had  been  reading  somewhere  that  the  hap- 
piest marriages  in  the  long  run  were  those  into 
which  passion,  on  the  part  of  one  of  the  contractors 
at  least,  did  not  enter.  Where  illusion  does  not 
exist,  disillusionment  cannot  follow. 

"  Then  I  should  be  happy,"  she  said  to  herself. 
Her  eye  fell  upon  her  own  photograph.  She  took 
it  up  and  looked  at  it,  and  she  wondered  whether 
in  truth  she  was  as  pretty  as  the  printed  face.  She 
was  comelier  now,  did  she  know  it,  than  when  the 
photograph  had  been  taken.  Her  face  had  gained 
in  expression,  her  eyes  were  deeper.  She  sighed 
and  began  to  dress.  Presently  she  wondered  how 
the  photograph  came  to  be  at  Eccram.  She  re- 
membered leaving  it  in  Primate  Street.  It  stood 
upon  a  writing-table  in  that  part  of  her  bedroom 
which,  with  the  help  of  a  screen,  she  had  made 
into  a  sort  of  minute  sitting-room.  She  would  ask 
Olympe  about  it. 

The  Frenchwoman,  having  attended  to  her  mis- 
tress, came  in  after  a  time  to  help  Araby  with  her 
toilet.  Araby,  however,  who  was  independent,  had 
dressed  herself. 

"I  had  something  to  ask  you,  Olympe.  What 
was  it?  Oh,  yes,  I  remember.  How  did  that  photo- 
graph get  here  ?  " 


280         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

She  pointed  to  it  as  she  spoke. 

Olympe,  who  connected  the  frame  with  many 
things,  was  taken  aback.  She  hesitated,  and  Araby 
looked  at  her  in  question. 

"  I  ought  to  have  told  you,  mademoiselle.  I  have 
a  misfortune.  I  drop  it.  I  break  the  frame." 

"  It  is  n't  broken,"  said  Araby. 

"I  —  it  was  mended  for  me,"  said  Olympe. 

"  Oh,  Olympe !  and  you  paid  for  it.  I  won't  let 
you.  You  must  tell  me  what  it  cost  you.  I  see  a 
little  fresh  bar  of  silver  has  been  put  on  here  at 
the  back  of  it.  You  must  tell  me  what  I  owe 
you." 

Araby  was  generous  always,  and  she  had  per- 
haps an  exaggerated  idea  of  the  limitations  of  the 
income  of  a  well-paid  servant. 

"  But  I  broke  it,"  said  Olympe. 

Araby  persisted.  She  sought  her  purse. 

"  Stop,  mademoiselle  !  I  paid  nothing.  I  will  tell 
you.  Monsieur  Ventnor  has  it  done  for  me." 

"Mr.  Ventnor?" 

Olympe's  hand  shook.  She  scarcely  knew  at 
this  moment  whether  or  not  she  was  going  to  tell 
that  which  she  fancied  she  had  discovered.  It  was 
not  too  late,  she  told  herself.  Chance  had  brought 
up  the  subject;  chance  should  determine  the  issue. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         281 

There  was  a  pause  which  seemed  to  Araby  unend- 
ing. In  spite  of  herself  she  grew  pale. 

"  He  met  me  on  the  stairs,"  said  Olympe  ;  "  he 
saw  what  I  had  done.  He  take  the  frame.  It  was 
after  you  come  here.  He  look  long — long  —  at  — 
your  face.  Mademoiselle,  mademoiselle — ." 

She  caught  the  girl  in  her  arms. 

"He  insist  that  he  take  the  frame  to  mend.  But 
it  was  not  for  me — not  for  me.  It  was  because  — " 

Olympe,  who  was  speaking  quickly  and  with  ex- 
citement, paused  suddenly.  The  bewildered  Araby 
followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes  to  the  door. 
Mrs.  Ruthven  came  in  radiantly  with  something 
in  her  hand. 

"  Your  father's  telegram,  Araby,"  she  said,  and 
she  kissed  her  daughter. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

GERALD  and  Miss  Norfolk  drove  to  the  station 
together,  and  paced  the  platform  while  they  waited 
for  the  train,  which  presently  arrived  and  conveyed 
them  to  the  junction  at  which  they  parted,  since 
their  roads  thence  diverged. 

"  You  are  to  cheer  up,"  said  Miss  Norfolk,  lean- 
ing forward  from  the  corner  of  the  carriage  in 
which  he  had  established  her  with  her  moderate 
equipments  of  comfortable  travel,  and  speaking  to 
him  through  the  window.  "  You  are  to  cheer  up 
and  to  hope  for  the  best,  and  to  expect  it  —  above 
everything  to  expect  it.  It  will  all  come  right. 
You'll  see.  You  mustn't  brood.  I  didn't  know 
you  ever  brooded — " 

Ventnor  smiled  and  looked  down  the  length  of 
the  train. 

They  had  each  learned  something  of  the  other 
in  the  last  few  days,  he  said. 

Miss  Norfolk  watched  his  face.  Presently  he 
looked  back  to  her. 

"Yes,  we  know  each  other  better,"  she  said. 

He  asked  her  if  she  had  a  book  or  a  paper.  He 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         283 

whistled  up  a  newsboy  and  he  bought  a  bundle  of 
periodicals.  They  were  oddly  chosen,  Miss  Norfolk 
found,  when  she  came  to  see  what  he  had  given 
her.  One  was  the  "Field,"  another  the  "Bachelor," 
another  the  "  Queen,"  another  the  "  Practical  En- 
gineer," a  fifth  a  technical  journal,  the  "  Linen- 
Draper's  Gazette  and  Haberdasher's  Chronicle." 

"  Ce  que  Jest  que  d^tre —  amoureux"  she  said 
to  herself  in  the  words  of  a  play.  "  He  does  n't 
know  a  bit  what  he's  doing  .  .  .  poor  boy!  poor 
Gerald!" 

Aloud  she  exhorted  him  once  more  to  be 
hopeful. 

"It'll  all  come  right,"  she  said  again.  "You 
must  get  that  well  into  your  head.  I  will  write  to 
you  as  soon  as  ever  I  can.  But  you  can't  hear  to- 
morrow, remember  that.  If  possible  you  shall  hear 
from  me  the  day  after.  You  're  to  take  a  lot  of  ex- 
ercise and  think  of  other  things.  If  there's  a  meet 
anywhere  to-morrow  you  must  hunt.  That  will  be 
good  for  you.  Are  we  off  now  ?  Don't  lean  against 
the  door.  Don't  hold  on.  You'll  be  run  over. 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Ventnor.  Good-bye.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,"  said  Gerald.  "Good-bye.  God 
bless  you." 

Miss  Norfolk  threw  herself  back  in  her  corner, 


284         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

and  cried  a  little  when  the  station  was  out  of 
sight. 

Gerald  had  a  wait  of  an  hour.  He  smoked  in 
moody  silence,  and  read  the  advertisements  upon 
the  walls  till  he  knew  them  by  heart.  An  express 
dashed  through  the  station,  and  occasional  trains 
discharged  or  took  up  passengers.  He  wondered 
vaguely  about  the  lives  of  the  people  he  saw.  Here 
were  a  husband  and  a  wife  in  impatient  argument. 
He  caught  a  few  of  the  words  of  the  man. 

"There's  no  reasoning  with  you.  You  bother 
one's  life  out.  Then  take  your  damned  way  and 
have  done  with  it.*' 

The  speaker  was  obviously  neither  ill-bred  nor 
despite  the  forcible  expression  of  his  irritation,  ill- 
conditioned.  The  woman  was  draggled  and  dowdy, 
but  with  care  she  would  have  been  pretty.  Gerald 
could  fancy  how  easy  it  would  be  to  lose  patience 
with  her.  She  had  a  look  of  querulous  injury.  Pos- 
sibly each  had  at  some  time  felt  for  the  other  that 
which  he  now  felt  for  one  in  the  world.  What  an 
ugly  thought !  Did  nothing  last  ?  he  asked  himself. 
If  so  what  matter  whether  one  got  one's  wish  or 
no  ?  Then  a  thought  of  Araby's  face  told  him  that 
cynical  views  of  marriage  were  not  for  him.  By 
no  effort  of  his  imagination  could  he  conceive  a 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         285 

state  in  which  Araby  and  he  might  suffer  from 
mutual  irritation.  He  built  then  a  castle  in  the  air, 
which  only  crumbled  and  fell  when  he  remembered 
Hartford. 

The  train  came  in  which  was  to  bear  him  to 
Combe  Lecton.  He  had  rested  little  on  the  previ- 
ous night,  and  he  slept  off  and  on  till  he  reached 
home.  His  sister  met  him  at  the  station. 

"  My  dear  Gwen  !  I  did  n't  know  you  were  here." 

"We  arrived  last  night,  Gerald.  I  persuaded 
mother  to  come  down  for  a  bit.  Oh,  I  am  glad  to 
see  you  again.  I  miss  you  so  dreadfully  when  you 
are  away,  and  mother  and  I  had  been  shut  up  alone 
together  in  Lennox  Gardens  quite  long  enough ; 
so  when  I  heard  that  you  meant  to  come  here  for 
the  last  of  the  hunting,  I  determined  to  come  too. 
No,  the  cart  will  bring  your  things.  I  am  driving 
the  trap." 

Miss  Ventnor  had  so  much  to  say  that  she  did 
not  at  once  remark  her  brother's  silence. 

"  There  was  an  article  in  the  '  Times '  on  father's 
speech  at  Hulworth.  Did  you  see  it?  He  is  as 
pleased  as  Punch.  And  oh,  Gerald,  the  stables  are 
splendid !  Do  tell  me  all  about  yourself.  The  George 
Athols  have  sent  out  the  invitations  for  Maud's 
wedding.  I  saw  Maud  last  week.  She  asked  me 


286         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

to  be  one  of  her  bridesmaids.  We  're  going  to 
wear  ..." 

And  so  on.  All  of  which  filled  time,  and  saved 
Gerald  the  necessity  of  at  once  collecting  his 
thoughts.  At  dinner,  however,  Miss  Ventnor  saw 
how  they  wandered,  and  with  what  an  effort  Gerald 
joined  in  the  conversation.  The  only  subject  which 
appeared  to  interest  him,  or  at  least  upon  which  he 
seemed  able  to  fix  his  attention,  was  that  of  the 
completed  stables.  The  necessity  for  certain  struc- 
tural alterations,  which  had  long  been  felt  and  dis- 
cussed, had  been  met  in  the  end  by  an  almost 
entire  remodelling  of  the  buildings.  Gerald  had 
sold  his  hunters  at  the  close  of  the  previous  sea- 
son, and  he  delayed  buying  or  even  looking  out 
for  others  till  Combe  Lecton  should  be  ready  to 
receive  them.  Sir  John,  who  had  gone  up  to  town 
on  the  reassembling  of  Parliament,  had  left  his 
own  horses  at  his  son's  disposal. 

Gwendolen  Ventnor,  once  having  divined  that 
her  brother  was  harassed,  managed  to  ask  no 
questions,  and  continued  to  express  her  sympathy 
by  her  manner.  She  knew  that  his  confidence 
would  be  given  voluntarily  or  not  at  all.  The  even- 
ing passed  uneventfully.  Lady  Ventnor  worked, 
and  talked  disparagingly  of  her  friends.  She  had 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         287 

lately  told  her  daughter  that  Gerald  was  quite 
changed  since  making  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs. 
Ruthven  (whom  she  spoke  of  as  "that  woman 
from  India"),  and  any  remarks  that  she  now  made 
about  Mrs.  Sandon  were  coloured,  Gwendolen 
knew  to  her  amusement,  by  the  fact  that  she  traced 
the  mischief  to  Mrs.  Sandon's  door  in  Earl  Street. 

"She  is  going  abroad,"  Lady  Ventnor  said, 
holding  up  her  work  to  look  at  it  obliquely.  "  I 
am  very  glad.  I  can  always  breathe  more  freely 
when  I  know  that  she  is  n't  in  London." 

Miss  Ventnor  said  that  she  should  have  thought 
London  was  large  enough  to  hold  them  both,  and 
Gerald,  meeting  his  sister's  eye,  and  catching 
thence  a  smile,  said,  — 

"  Besides,  you  're  not  in  London." 

Lady  Ventnor,  in  her  defence,  always  snatched 
at  side  issues. 

"  And  you  mean  by  that,  I  suppose,  that  I  am 
neglecting  your  father,"  she  said.  "I  think  you 
need  n't  say  things  of  that  sort  on  the  very  first 
evening  you  come  home.  You  know  that  during 
the  session  he  would  much  rather  have  the  house 
to  himself.  I  consulted  him  —  Gwen  will  tell  you  — 
before  coming  down  here." 

"My  dear  mother,  I  meant  nothing  of  the  sort/' 


288         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

said  Gerald.  There  was  a  shade  of  impatience  in 
his  voice,  but  in  his  present  mood  he  would  not 
risk  an  argument.  Lady  Ventnor  when  she  chose  to 
be  misunderstood  was  impracticable.  He  changed 
the  subject,  and  when  his  mother  went  back  to  her 
depreciation  of  Mrs.  Sandon  he  forbore  to  protest. 

His  sister  followed  him  to  the  smoking-room 
later  on.  This  was  the  moment  to  which  she  always 
looked  forward  when  her  brother  was  at  home  and 
there  were  no  men  in  the  house  to  bear  him  com- 
pany. Sometimes  he  talked  to  her ;  often  he  said 
very  little.  But  whether  he  talked  or  was  silent 
Gwendolen  knew  that  he  liked  to  have  her  with 
him. 

He  made  a  few  comments  upon  all  the  all-im- 
portant stables,  and  then  he  lapsed  into  a  reverie. 
The  falling  of  a  log  from  the  fire  started  him  to 
his  feet  After  that  he  paced  the  room  —  a  restless 
uncomfortable  pacing. 

Gwendolen  rose  silently  after  a  time,  kissed  him, 
and  went  up  to  bed.  She  listened  for  his  step  on  the 
stairs.  It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  she  heard 
it.  It  came  slowly  and  paused  at  her  door  which 
was  near  his.  She  thought  that  perhaps  he  was 
coming  in  to  tell  her  what  ailed  him.  But  he 
passed  on  to  his  room.  In  the  morning  she  heard 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         289 

him  astir  almost  before  the  servants,  and  in  and 
out  of  the  passages.  She  heard  his  bell  early,  and 
presently  one  servant  telling  another  that  his  let- 
ters were  to  be  brought  to  him  the  moment  the 
post  came.  It  was  a  letter  then  ?  But  she  knew, 
when  she  saw  him  at  breakfast,  that  if  so  it  had 
not  arrived.  After  that  he  seemed  to  be  waiting 
for  a  telegram.  He  had  settled  to  hunt  that  day 
but  he  hung  about  till  the  last  moment. 

"  Don't  tell  me  he  is  n't  changed,"  his  mother 
said  when  at  last  he  had  started.  "  I  know  what 
I  think.  He's  in  love  with  that  horrid  married 
woman." 

Gwendolen  shook  her  head  —  but  rather  me- 
chanically. 

"  He  is,"  said  Lady  Ventnor.  "  I  've  seen  it  for 
ages.  I  'm  very  sorry  I  ever  called  upon  her.  I 
ought  n't  to  have  allowed  myself  to  be  persuaded 
against  my  better  judgment.  Why  could  n't  she 
stop  in  India  with  her  husband  ?  —  a  woman  with 
a  grown-up  daughter  too.  It  is  disgraceful.  And 
you  may  say  what  you  like,  people  did  talk  about 
Gerald  going  there  before  he  left  London." 

Gwendolen  contrived  to  say  "  Nonsense  "  good- 
humouredly. 

"It  is  not  nonsense,"  said  Lady  Ventnor.  "I 


2QO         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

only  wish  it  was.  And  she  left  London  herself 
directly  after  he  did,  so  I  dare  say  she 's  seen  him 
while  he  has  been  away.  She  probably  managed 
to  get  herself  asked  to  some  of  the  houses  where 
he  stayed.  That  sort  of  woman  always  does  — 
somehow  always  can !  I  am  surprised  at  the  George 
Athols  taking  her  up  —  surprised  beyond  measure." 

But  for  once  Gwendolen  was  silent. 

She  found  herself  watching  the  posts  for  her 
brother  and  watching  for  telegrams.  Neither  letter 
nor  telegram  came,  and  the  day  passed  lengthily. 

At  five  o'clock  she  heard  the  sound  of  his  horse's 
hoofs  on  the  gravel  of  the  drive.  There  were  vis- 
itors in  the  drawing-room  and  she  could  not  make 
her  escape.  When  at  length  their  carriage  rolled 
away,  Gerald  was  splashing  in  his  bath.  Half  an 
hour  later  she  heard  him  go  down  to  the  smoking- 
room,  and  there  she  joined  him.  He  looked  fresh 
and  ruddy  after  his  hot  tub,  as  he  lay  in  his  flannels 
on  the  sofa  he  had  drawn  up  to  the  fire,  but  Gwen- 
dolen could  see  that  the  tension  was  not  relaxed. 

"You're  back  early,  are  n't  you?  Did  you 
kill?" 

Gerald  shook  his  head.  If  he  had  been  himself 
he  would  have  given  her  some  account  of  his  day. 
He  dismissed  it  in  a  few  words. 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         291 

"  Shall  I  stop  with  you,  or  would  you  care  to  get 
a  sleep  before  dinner?" 

"Stop  with  me.  Don't  go  because  I  don't  talk. 
I  don't  think  I  shall  go  to  sleep.  You  find  me  pretty 
bad  company  just  now,  I  am  afraid,  Gwen?" 

"  No,  Gerald,  I  don't.  I  should  like  to  stay  with 
you  if  I  don't  disturb  you.  I  '11  fetch  a  book." 

She  went  to  a  shelf  and  ran  her  eye  along  the 
volumes.  They  were  a  motley  smoking-room  set ; 
some  novels,  French  and  English,  a  few  sporting 
books,  a  Shakespeare,  some  bound  numbers  of 
"Punch,"  an  odd  volume  of  Gibbon's  "Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,"  taken  by  some 
careless  visitor  from  the  library  to  whose  shelves  it 
belonged  and  not  returned  to  its  place,  a  copy  of  the 
"Arabian  Nights,"  a  few  poets.  Gwendolen  took 
down  a  copy  of  Longfellow. 

"  What's  your  book?"  said  Gerald. 

She  told  him. 

"  Read  me  something." 

"Yes,  Gerald.  What  shall  I  read?" 

She  sat  down  on  a  low  chair  at  the  foot  of  the 
couch.  Gerald  shook  his  head,  and  she  opened  the 
book  at  random.  She  chanced  upon  the  "  Skeleton 
in  Armour." 

Thus  for  Gerald  did  all  things  at  this  time  seem 


292         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

to  lead  back  to  Araby.  His  thoughts  wandered  at 
his  sister  read.  Her  voice  sounded  steadily  through 
them  as  a  note  in  a  song  is  sustained  against  the 
air  in  the  accompaniment.  Words,  a  line,  here  and 
there,  arrested  his  attention.  Fancy  wove  Araby  *s 
name  into  the  ballad.  She  was  the  Norse  maiden 
with  the  "  soft  eyes  .  .  .  burning  yet  tender."  He 
could  see  her  standing  in  old  Hildebrand's  hall, 
where  the  shields  gleamed  and  the  minstrels  sang, 
while  her  father's  laugh  blew  the  foam  from  the 
drinking-horn. 

"  Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 
Her  nest  unguarded  ?  " 

For  Araby  he  thought  he  could  have  faced  Hil- 
debrand  and  twice  twenty  Norsemen.  He  closed 
his  eyes,  but  it  was  then  that  the  strangest  excite- 
ment began  suddenly  to  possess  him  —  an  ex- 
citement that  was  like  an  exaltation  of  the  spirit 
?  What  was  happening  at  Eccram  ? 

Gwendolen  read  on. 

11  As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 
With  his  prey  laden, — 


.TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         293 

So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 
Bore  I  the  maiden." 

What  was  happening  at  Eccram?  Something. 
Something,  he  was  sure  of  it.  Something  at  that 
moment.  He  was  on  his  feet  again  and  pacing  the 
room.  The  reading  was  interrupted,  and  the  ballad 
ended  thus  on  the  note,  not  of  separation  and  de- 
spair, but  of  complete,  of  triumphant  possession. 
"To-morrow,"  he  said  to  the  bewildered  Gwen- 
dolen. "  I  '11  tell  you  to-morrow." 

Meanwhile  he  had  to  face  dinner  and  to  get 
somehow  through  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

HE  got  through  the  night  walking  —  just  walking 
— thinking  when  he  must,  but  walking  all  the  time. 
Four  walls  could  not  have  held  him. 

He  took  to  the  high-road,  and  followed  it  on  and 
on  in  the  darkness.  There  was  no  moon.  The  sky 
was  heavy ;  the  stars  hidden.  The  hedges  and  trees 
were  black  or  indistinguishable.  There  were  no 
sounds  in  the  night.  The  silence  was  sullen. 

Some  drops  of  rain  fell,  but  Gerald,  disregarding 
them,  strode  on.  He  passed  through  a  village  where 
a  few  men  and  a  woman  or  two  hung  about  the 
doors  of  a  public-house.  He  was  recognized  and 
hats  were  touched.  He  made  for  the  open  coun- 
try. Just  so,  though  he  did  not  know  it,  had  Mrs. 
Ruthven  once  walked  in  the  town. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Norfolk's  letter !  He  knew 
she  would  not  fail  him.  She  would  understand  at 
a  glance  the  situation  which  Eccram  would  present 
to  her.  He  could  trust  her  to  deal  with  it  wisely. 

On  and  on  in  the  darkness.  He  thought  of  Araby 
and  wondered,  and  then  he  thought  of  Hartford. 
He  bore  Hartford  no  ill-will  as  yet  —  Hartford  who 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         295 

would  be  under  the  control  of  any  puller  of  wires. 
You  might  like  Hartford  very  much,  but  just  as  you 
would  never  dream  of  going  to  him  for  advice  or 
counsel,  so  would  you  never  hold  him  answerable 
for  anything  in  which  others  also  were  concerned. 
Gerald  remembered  how,  in  the  Eton  days,  younger 
boys  had  been  called  to  account  for  misdemeanours 
in  which  Hartford  had  equally  been  involved,  and 
for  which,  if  seniority  had  meant  anything,  it  was 
he  rather  than  they  who  should  have  been  held  re- 
sponsible. Hartford  ?  No,  Hartford  was  negligible. 
But  Mrs.  Ruthven  ?  Araby's  mother !  He  quickened 
his  pace. 

Thus  through  the  darkness  —  pursuing  thoughts 
or  pursued  of  them  in  turn,  and  often,  as  far  as  might 
be,  not  thinking  at  all.  Thus  through  the  hours  and 
the  silence. 

Then  came  a  change.  A  soft  hissing  sound 
made  itself  heard.  This  was  the  sound  of  the  rain 
which  now  began  to  fall ;  —  gently  at  first,  then 
steadily  in  a  down  pour,  till  the  night,  silent  no 
longer,  was  filled  with  the  noise  of  it.  Gerald  pulled 
his  cap  down  over  his  eyes,  turned  up  his  collar, 
and  strode  on.  In  less  than  five  minutes  he  was 
wet  to  the  skin.  Still  he  did  not  turn,  but  just 
walked  —  through  the  straight  and  steady  lines  of 


296         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

the  water,  the  swishing,  rushing  blackness  of  the 
hours. 

It  was  towards  dawn  that  Gwendolen,  lying 
awake  and  listening  to  the  rain  on  her  windows, 
heard  him  go  to  his  room.  .  .  . 

He  slept  as  if  he  had  been  drugged  —  was 
sleeping  so  heavily  in  the  morning  that  even  the 
entrance  of  the  servant  did  not  wake  him.  It  must 
have  been  an  hour  later  that  he  started  out  of 
sleep  —  rubbing  his  eyes  like  a  child — to  find  the 
sunlight  pouring  in  through  his  windows,  and 
Miss  Norfolk's  letter  on  the  tray  beside  his  bed. 
He  opened  it  with  trembling  fingers.  It  was  short, 
he  saw  —  but  short  only  as  the  first  despatch  from 
a  battle-field.  It  was  in  pencil ;  hardly  legible  — 
had  been  written  indeed  as  blindly  as  it  was  read. 
But  what  it  said  clearly  was,  Come.  Miss  Norfolk 
had  been  in  time  —  by  less,  it  seemed,  than  a 
round  of  the  clock  —  but  in  time.  Gwendolen, 
perhaps,  if  she  could  have  seen  her  brother  then, 
would  not  again  have  said  of  him  that  with  Gerald 
you  never  could  tell  what  he  was  thinking  or 
feeling. 

So  nearly !  Araby  held  her  breath.  Gerald  (hold- 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         297 

ing  her  before  the  day  was  over)  held  his.  The 
eleventh  hour  truly. 

Miss  Norfolk  and  Olympe  were  the  heroines  of  it 
—  the  odd  eleventh  hour.  Miss  Norfolk  knew  what 
she  knew  ;  Olympe  what  she  had  guessed.  They,  it 
was,  who,  braving  Mrs.  Ruthven  in  what  Miss  Nor- 
folk ever  afterwards  called  the  Awful  Day,  had 
fought  Araby's  battle  —  which  also  was  Gerald's. 
The  aunts,  while  it  raged,  were  pushed  on  one 
side  —  well  out  of  the  zone  of  the  firing  ;  so,  almost, 
was  Araby,  who  rushed  in  and  out  of  it  all  the 
same,  now  taking  her  mother's  part,  now  her  own, 
and  receiving  plentiful  wounds  in  the  process 
(wounds,  which  yet  would  heal  quickly) ;  so,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  was  Hartford  who,  after 
Miss  Norfolk  had  talked  to  him,  really  behaved 
as  she  said  like  an  Angel.  Araby,  torn  in  every 
direction,  was  useless.  Hartford  was  amenable.  It 
was  Miss  Norfolk  and  Olympe  against  Mrs.  Ruth- 
ven: Mrs.  Ruthven  —  the  stake,  Hartford  and 
Araby,  as  pliable  as  she  could  possibly  wish !  — 
against  Miss  Norfolk  and  Olympe.  Against  any 
two,  had  Mrs.  Ruthven  thought,  with  the  Jesuit  ? 
She  had  not  bargained  perhaps  that  the  two  should 
be  women. 

The  battle  —  Araby  so  dreadfully  ready  to  abide 


298         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

by  her  word  !  —  was  waged  sore  till  the  evening. 
The  conclusion  seemed  foregone :  Mrs.  Ruthven 
must  carry  the  day.  It  was  then,  however,  consid- 
erably after  the  going  down  of  the  sun  and  just  in 
time  for  Miss  Norfolk  to  catch  the  post  with  her  let- 
ter—  it  was  then  that  Miss  Norfolk  drew  her  bow  at 
a  venture.  Gerald  in  the  smoking-room  at  Combe 
Lecton  knew  the  exact  moment  better  than  she. 
Miss  Norfolk  drew  her  bow  at  so  sporting  a  ven- 
ture that  she  trembled  as  she  followed  the  flight  of 
the  shaft.  It  struck  Mrs.  Ruthven  —  struck  her  like 
the  shaft  from  another  bow  drawn  too  at  a  venture, 
between  the  joints  of  the  armour. 

How  had  she  dared  to  tell  Araby  that  she  knew 
of  the  meeting  in  Piccadilly  —  of  the  putting  of 
Araby  into  the  cab  ? 

Such  a  little  thing. 

Mrs.  Ruthven  and  Araby  together  flushed  and 
together  grew  pale. 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"  You  told  me  you  sent  him,"  came  from  Araby' s 
lips  then.  "  Mother  —  you  told  me  you  sent  him." 
Mrs.  Ruthven  recovered  herself,  but  the  battle  was 
over.  Miss  Norfolk  knew  it.  Olympe  knew  it. 
Araby  knew  it.  Even  Mrs.  Ruthven  herself.  The 
marriage  which  had  been  engineered  so  skillfully 


TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN         299 

was  not  going  to  take  place  either  on  the  morrow 
or  on  any  other  morrow.  The  day  was  won. 

It  was  Miss  Norfolk  who  broke  down. 

"  Oh,  you  foolish,  unhappy  woman,"  she  said  to 
Araby's  mother ;  and  to  Araby,  "  Oh,  you  foolish, 
lucky,  lucky  girl,"  and  subsided  choking,  like 
Araby  before  her,  on  to  the  capacious  bosom  of 
the  Frenchwoman. 

The  rest,  if  not  silence  exactly,  was  comparative 
silence.  Mrs.  Ruthven,  bearing  nobody  any  ill-will, 
would  join  Mrs.  Sandon.  The  others  must  just 
settle  things  up  amongst  them —  leaving  her  out. 
Their  hands,  she  was  afraid,  would  be  full.  Lewis 
would  see  her,  perhaps,  to  Earl  Street  in  the  morn- 
ing—  the  good  Olympe  staying  behind  her  to 
pack. 

So  the  thing  was  done  ;  the  way  clear  for  Gerald 
to  Araby.  But  Miss  Norfolk's  heart  ached. 

She  felt  inexpressibly  lonely  when  the  day  was 
over  and  she  stumbled  up  at  last  to  her  bedroom 
at  Cora  Pine's.  It  was  then  that  she  had  time  to 
attend  to  her  own  affairs.  All  day  some  letters  had 
been  waiting  for  her.  She  opened  them  listlessly. 
But  —  the  reshuffling  of  partners  even  then  incom- 
plete !  —  her  letters  were  to  tell  her  of  the  breaking 


300         TIME  AND  THE  WOMAN 

off  of  another  engagement,  and  one  of  them,  writ- 
ten it  is  true  from  where  love  lay  bleeding,  was 
from  poor,  brave,  determined,  unselfish,  generous 
Anne. 


THE  END 


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